Univer! 
Sout^ 
Lib] 


■  ■■}  !;iiM;u:;iii[jF;r,; 


,tllki'*t**^[*E'U, 


PUTNAM'S  RUSSIAN  LIBRARY,  under  the  Editorship 
of  STEPHEN   GRAHAM 


A    SLAV   SOUL 


?^ 


A    SLAV    SOUL 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 

BY 

ALEXANDER   KUPRIN 

WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

STEPHEN    GRAHAM 


NEW   YORK 

G.    p.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 
1916 


Printed  in  Gnat  Britain. 


3447 


CONTENTS 


Introduction:  Alexander  Kuprin   . 

PAGE 

vii 

I. 

A  .Slav  Soul 

I 

II. 

The  Song  and  the  Dance  . 

14 

III. 

Easter  Day 

22 

IV. 

The  Idiot     . 

38 

V. 

The  Picture 

50 

VI. 

Hamlet 

72 

VII. 

Mechanical  Justice    . 

94 

VIII. 

The  Last  Word   . 

108 

IX. 

The  White  Poodle 

117 

X. 

The  Elephant 

163 

XI. 

Dogs'  Happiness  . 

.     178 

XII. 

A  Clump  of  Lilacs 

.    190 

XIII. 

Anathema     . 

.    198 

XIV. 

Tempting  Providence 

.    210 

XV. 

Cain 

■ 

.    224 

3di  rs 


INTRODUCTION 

ALEXANDER   KUPRIN 

"  Oh  how  incomprehensible  for  us,  how  mysterious, 
how  strange  are  the  very  simplest  happenings  in  life. 
And  we,  not  understanding  them,  unable  to  penetrate 
their  significance,  heap  one  event  upon  another,  plait 
them  together,  join  them,  make  acquaintances  and 
marriages,  write  books,  say  sermons,  found  ministries, 
carry  on  war  or  trade,  make  new  inventions  and  then 
after  all,  create  history  !  And  yet  every  time  I  think 
of  the  immensity  and  complexity,  the  incomprehensible 
and  elemental  accidentoriness  of  the  whole  hurly- 
burly  of  life,  then  my  own  little  life  seems  but  a  miser- 
able speck  of  dust  lost  in  the  whirl  of  a  hurricane." 

So  in  a  paragraph  in  one  of  his  sketches  Alexander 
Kuprin  gives  his  feelings  about  his  hfe  and  his  work, 
and  in  that  expression  perhaps  we  see  his  characteristic 
attitude  towards  the  world  of  which  he  writes.  One 
of  the  strongest  tales  in  this  collection,  'Tempting 
Providence,"  is  very  representative  of  Kuprin  in  this 
vein. 

After  Chekhof  the  most  popular  tale-writer  in 
Russia  is  Kuprin,  the  author  of  fourteen  volumes  of 
effusive,  touching  and  humorous  stories.  He  is  read 
by  the  great  mass  of  the  Russian  reading  public,  and 
his  works  can  be  bought  at  any  railway  bookstall  in 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

the  Empire.  He  is  devoured  by  the  students,  loved  by 
the  bourgeois,  and  admired  even  by  intellectual  and 
fastidious  Russians.  It  is  impossible  not  to  admire 
this  natural  torrent  of  Russian  thoughts  and  words 
and  sentiments.  His  Hvely  pages  are  a  reflection  of 
Russia  herself,  and  without  having  been  once  in  the 
country  it  would  be  possible  to  get  a  fair  notion  of  its 
surface  hfe  by  reading  these  tales  in  translation. 
Perhaps  the  greatest  of  living  Russian  novelists  is 
Kuprin — exalted,  hysterical,  sentimental,  Rabelaisian 
Kuprin.  He  comes  to  you  with  a  handful  of  wild 
flowers  in  one  red,  hairy  hand  and  a  shovelful  of 
rubbish  in  the  other — his  shiny,  lachrymose  but  un- 
fathomable features  pouring  floods  of  tears  or  roUing 
and  bursting  in  guffaws  of  laughter.  His  is  a  rank 
verbiage — he  gives  birth  to  words,  ideas,  examples 
in  tens  where  other  writers  go  by  units  and  threes. 

He  is  occasionally  coarse,  occasionally  sentimental, 
but  he  gives  great  delight  to  his  readers ;  his  are 
rough-hewn  lumps  of  conversation  and  life.  With  him 
everything  is  taken  from  life.  He  seems  to  be  a  master 
of  detail,  and  the  characteristic  of  his  style  is  a  tendency 
to  give  the  most  diverting  lists.  Often  paragraph  after 
paragraph,  if  you  look  into  the  style,  would  be  found 
to  be  Usts  of  dehcious  details  reported  in  a  conver- 
sational manner.  Thus,  opening  a  volume  at  random, 
you  can  easily  find  an  example  : — 

"  Imagine  the  village  we  had  reached — all  overblown  with 
snow;  the  inevitable  village  idiot,  Serozha,  walking  almost 
naked  in  the  snow ;  the  priest,  who  won't  play  cards  the  day 
before  a  festival  but  writes  denunciations  to  the  village 
starosta  instead — a  stupid,  artful  man,  and  an  adept  at 
getting  alms,  speaking  an  atrocious  Petersburg  Russian.  If 
you  have  grasped  what  society  was  like  in  the  village  you 
know  to  what  point  of  boredom  and  stupefaction  we  attained. 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

We  had  already  got  tired  of  bear-hunting,  hare-hunting  with 
hounds,  pistol-shooting  at  a  target  through  three  rooms, 
writing  humorous  verses .     It  must  be  confessed  we  quarrelled . ' ' 

He  is  also  the  inventor  of  amusing  sentences  which  can 
almost  be  used  as  proverbs  : — 

He  knew  which  end  of  the  asparagus  to  eat. 

Or, 

We  looked  at  our  neighbours  through  a  microscope ;  they 
at  us  through  a  telescope. 

Every  one  of  Kuprin's  stories  has  the  necessary  Attic 
salt.  He  is  like  our  English  Kipling,  whom  he  greatly 
admires,  and  about  whom  he  has  written  in  one  of  his 
books  an  appreciative  essay.  He  is  also  something  like 
the  American  O.  Henry,  especially  in  the  matter  of  his 
lists  of  details  and  his  apt  metaphors,  but  he  has  not 
the  artifice  nor  the  everlasting  American  smile.  Kuprin, 
moreover,  takes  his  matter  from  life  and  writes  with 
great  ease  and  carelessness ;  0.  Henry  put  together 
from  life  and  re-wrote  twelve  times. 

Above  all  things  Kuprin  is  a  sentimental  author, 
preferring  an  impulse  to  a  reason,  and  abandoning 
logic  whenever  his  feehngs  are  touched.  He  likes  to 
feel  the  reader  with  the  tears  in  his  eyes  and  then  to 
go  forward  with  him  in  the  unity  of  emotional  friend- 
ship. There  is,  however,  under  this  excitement  a 
rather  self-centred  cynic  despising  the  things  he  does 
not  love,  a  satirical  genius.  His  humour  is  nearly 
always  at  the  expense  of  some  person,  institution  or 
class  of  society.  Thus  "  The  Song  and  the  Dance  " 
is  at  the  expense  of  the  peasantry,  "  The  Last  Word  " 
at  the  expense  of  the  lower  intelligentia,  "  The  J  White 
Poodle  "  at  the  expense  of  those  rich  bourgeois  who 
have  villas  on  the  Crimean  shores,  "  Anathema  "  at 


X  INTRODUCTION 

the  expense  of  the  Church,  "  Mechanical  Justice  "  at 
the  expense  of  the  professor,  and  so  on.  And  it  is  part 
of  Kuprin's  sentiment  to  love  dogs  almost  as  much  as 
men,  and  he  tells  no  tales  at  dogs'  expense.  "  The 
White  Poodle  "  and  "  Dogs'  Happiness  "  are  two  of  his 
dog  tales. 

The  tales  selected  are  taken  from  various  volumes, 
and  two  of  them,  "  The  Elephant  "  and  "  The  White 
Poodle,"  from  a  volume  specially  designed  by  him  for 
reading  aloud  to  children.  They  are  in  very  simple  and 
colloquial  and  humorous  Russian,  and  are  delightful 
to  read  aloud. 

Kuprin,  who  is  a  living  Russian  tale-writer,  though 
considerably  less  productive  than  in  his  earlier  years, 
spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  the  Crimea,  which  is 
evidently  favourite  country  to  him.      Chekhof  also 
lived  in  the  Crimea  and  tended   lovingly  his  rose 
garden  at  Yalta.     His  neighbour,  Kuprin,  wrote  one 
of  the  most  charming  reminiscent  essays  on  Chekhof 
and  his  life  in  "To  the  Glory  of  the  Living  and  the 
Dead,"  which  also  contains  the  Kipling  essay.     Many 
of  Kuprin's  stories  relate  to  the   Crimea,   and  the 
longest  of  these  given  in  this  selection  contains  a 
description  of  Crimean  life,  and  gives  (pp.  154 — 157)  a 
wonderful  impression   of  a  Crimean  summer  night. 
Kuprin  has  also  lived  in  England  and  has  written 
tales  of  London  life,  and  has  occasional  references  to 
English  characteristics.     But  I  have  avoided  carrying 
coals  to  Newcastle. 

As  compared  with  Sologub,  whose  volume  of 
beautiful  tales,  "The  Sweet-scented  Name,"  has 
found  so  many  friends  in  England,  Kuprin  may  be 
said  to  be  nearer  to  the  earth,  less  in  the  clouds. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

He  is  a  satirical  realist,  whereas  Sologub  is  a  fantastic 
realist.  Sologub  discloses  the  devils  and  the  angels  in 
men  and  women,  but  Kuprin  is  cheerfully  human. 
Both  have  a  certain  satirical  genius,  but  Kuprin  is 
read  by  everyone,  whereas  it  would  be  hardly  one  in 
ten  that  could  follow  Sologub.  In  comparison  with 
Chekhof  I  should  say  Kuprin  was  a  little  more 
inventive,  and  as  regards  a  picture  of  life  Kuprin 
is  nearer  to  the  present  moment.  Nearly  all  these 
Russian  tale-writers  excel  in  describing  the  Hfe  of 
townspeople.  Very  little  study  of  the  peasantry  has 
been  made,  though  there  are  one  or  two  notable 
exceptions. 

Kuprin  made  his  name  in  writing  stories  of  life  in  the 
Russian  army.  He  did  not  describe  the  common 
soldier  as  did  his  likeness,  KipHng,  but  rather  the  Hfe 
of  the  officers.  His  most  famous  books  on  the  subject 
are  "Cadets,"  "Staff-Captain  Ribnikof'i  and  "The 
Duel."  1  He  extended  his  popularity  with  somewhat 
lurid  and  oleographic  descriptions  of  the  night  haunt 
and  night  life,  and  wrote  the  notorious  novel,  lately 
completed,  entitled  "  Yama  "—"  The  Pit."  He  has 
written  a  great  deal  about  the  relationship  of  men  and 
women.  His  weakness  is  the  subject  of  women. 
Whenever  they  come  into  question  he  becomes  self- 
conscious  and  awkward,  putting  his  subject  in  the 
wrong  light,  protesting  too  much,  and  finally  writing 
that  which  is  not  fitting  just  because  "  all  is  permitted  " 
and  "  why  shouldn't  we  ?  "  His  poorest  work  is  his 
coarse  work.  Nothing  ugly  is  worth  reproducing, 
however  curious  the  ugliness  may  be.  We  do  not 
want  the  ugly,  and  are  interested  more  in  brightest 
^  Now  obtainable  in  English  translation. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

Russia  than  in  darkest  Russia.  My  purpose  is  to 
give  what  is  beautiful,  or  in  any  case  what  is  interest- 
ing but  not  ugly,  in  the  hving  Russian  literature 
of  to-day.  Consequently  I  have  made,  together  with 
my  wife,  a  choice  of  Kuprin.  We  have  read  all  his 
stories  through  and  taken  fifteen  of  those  which  make 
him  a  great  writer,  just  those  which  should  enrich  us. 
Here  is  Kuprin's  humour,  sentiment,  pathos,  and 
delightful  and  entertaining  verbosity.  Of  this  work 
all  but  three  tales  were  translated  by  my  wife,  and 
these  three  by  myself.  I  have  communicated  the 
contents  to  Kuprin,  who  sanctions  the  publication. 

STEPHEN   GRAHAM. 
London. 


A    SLAV    SOUL 


A  SLAV   SOUL 

The  farther  I  go  back  in  my  memory  of  the  past, 
and  the  nearer  I  get  to  remembering  incidents  connected 
with  my  childhood,  the  more  confused  and  doubtful  do 
my  recollections  become.  Much,  no  doubt,  was  told 
me  afterwards,  in  a  more  conscious  stage  of  my  exis- 
tence, by  those  who,  with  loving  care,  noticed  my  early 
doings.  Perhaps  many  of  the  things  that  I  recall 
never  happened  to  me  ;  I  heard  or  read  them  some 
time  or  other  and  their  remembrance  grew  to  be  part  of 
myself.  Who  can  guarantee  which  of  these  recollec- 
tions are  of  real  facts  and  which  of  tales  told  so  long 
ago  that  they  have  all  the  appearance  of  truth — who 
can  know  where  one  ends  and  the  other  begins  ? 

My  imagination  recalls  with  special  vividness  the 
eccentric  figure  of  Yasha  and  the  two  companions — 
I  might  almost  call  them  friends — who  accompanied 
him  along  the  path  of  life  :  Matsko,  an  old  rejected 
cavalry  horse,  and  the  yard-dog  Bouton. 

Yasha  was  distinguished  by  the  deliberate  slowness 
of  his  speech  and  actions,  and  he  always  had  the  air 
of  a  man  whose  thoughts  were  concentrated  on  himself. 
He  spoke  very  seldom  and  considered  his  speech  ;   he 

S.S.  B 


2  A  SLAV    SOUL 

tried  to  speak  good  Russian,  though  at  times  when  he 
was  moved  he  would  burst  out  in  his  native  dialect  of 
Little-Russian.  Owing  to  his  dress  of  a  dark  colour 
and  sober  cut,  and  to  the  solemn  and  almost  melan- 
choly expression  of  his  shaven  face  and  thin  pursed 
lips,  he  always  gave  the  impression  that  he  was  an  old 
servant  of  a  noble  family  of  the  good  old  times. 

Of  all  the  human  beings  that  he  knew,  Yasha  seemed 
to  find  my  father  the  only  one  besides  himself  worthy 
of  his  veneration.  And  though  to  us  children,  to  my 
mother,  and  to  all  our  family  and  friends,  his  manner 
was  respectful,  it  was  mingled  with  a  certain  pity  and 
slighting  condescension.  It  was  always  an  enigma  to 
me — whence  came  this  immeasurable  pride  of  his. 
Servants  have  often  a  well-known  form  of  insolence  ; 
they  take  upon  themselves  some  of  that  attractive 
authority  which  they  have  noticed  in  their  masters. 
But  my  father,  a  poor  doctor  in  a  little  Jewish  village, 
lived  so  modestly  and  quietly  that  Yasha  could 
never  have  learnt  from  him  to  look  down  upon  his 
neighbours.  And  in  Yasha  himself  there  was  none  of 
the  ordinary  insolence  of  a  servant— he  had  no  metro- 
politan polish  and  could  not  overawe  people  by  using 
foreign  words,  he  had  no  overbearing  manners  towards 
country  chambermaids,  no  gentle  art  of  tinkling  out 
touching  romances  on  the  guitar,  an  art  by  which  so 
many  inexperienced  souls  have  been  ruined.  He 
occupied  his  leisure  hours  in  lying  in  sheer  idleness 
full-length  on  the  box  in  which  he  kept  his  belongings. 
He  not  only  did  not  read  books,  but  he  sincerely 
despised  them.  All  things  written,  except  in  the  Bible, 
were,  in  his  opinion,  written  not  for  truth's  sake  but 
just  to  get  money,  and  he  therefore  preferred  to  any 


A   SLAV    SOUL  3 

book  those  long  rambling  thoughts  which  he  turned 
over  in  his  mind  as  he  lay  idly  on  his  bed. 

Matsko,  the  horse,  had  been  rejected  from  military 
service  on  account  of  many  vices,  the  chief  of  which 
was  that  he  was  old,  far  too  old.  Then  his  forelegs 
were  crooked,  and  at  the  places  where  they  joined  the 
body  were  adorned  with  bladder-like  growths ;  he 
strutted  on  his  hind  legs  like  a  cock.  He  held  his  head 
like  a  camel,  and  from  old  mihtary  habit  tossed  it 
upward  and  thrust  his  long  neck  forward.  This, 
combined  with  his  enormous  size  and  unusual  leanness, 
and  the  fact  that  he  had  only  one  eye,  gave  him  a 
pitiful  war-like  and  serio-comic  expression.  Such 
horses  are  called  in  the  regiments  "  star-gazers." 

Yasha  prized  Matsko  much  more  than  Bouton,  who 
sometimes  displayed  a  frivolity  entirely  out  of  keeping 
with  his  size.  He  was  one  of  those  shaggy,  long-haired 
dogs  who  at  times  remind  one  of  ferrets,  but  being  ten 
times  as  large,  they  sometimes  look  like  poodles  ;  they 
are  by  nature  the  very  breed  for  yard-dogs.  At  home 
Bouton  was  always  overwhelmingly  serious  and 
sensible  in  all  his  ways,  but  in  the  streets  his  behaviour 
was  positively  disgraceful.  If  he  went  out  with  my 
father  he  would  never  run  modestly  behind  the  carriage 
as  a  well-behaved  dog  should  do.  He  would  rush  to 
meet  all  other  dogs,  jump  about  them  and  bark  loudly 
in  their  very  noses,  only  springing  away  to  one  side  in 
affright  if  one  of  them  with  a  snort  of  alarm  bent  his 
•  head  quickly  and  tried  to  bite  him.  He  ran  into  other 
people's  yards  and  came  tearing  out  again  after  a 
second  or  so,  chased  by  a  dozen  angry  dogs  of  the 
place.  He  wandered  about  on  terms  of  deepest  friend- 
ship with  dogs  of  a  known  bad  reputation, 


4  A  SLAV   SOUL 

In  our  districts  of  Podolia  and  Volhynia  nothing  was 
thought  so  much  of  as  a  person's  way  of  setting  out  from 
his  house.  A  squire  might  long  since  have  mortgaged 
and  re-mortgaged  his  estate,  and  be  only  waiting  for 
the  officers  of  the  Crown  to  take  possession  of  his 
property,  but  let  him  only  on  a  Sunday  go  out  to 
"  Holy  Church,"  it  must  be  in  a  light  tarantass  drawn 
by  four  or  six  splendid  fiery  Polish  horses,  and  driving 
into  the  market  square  of  the  village  he  must  cry  to  the 
coachman — "  Lay  on  with  the  whip,  Joseph."  Yet  I 
am  sure  that  none  of  our  rich  neighbours  started  off 
in  such  pomp  as  Yasha  was  able  to  impart  to  our 
equipage  when  my  father  made  up  his  mind  to  journey 
forth.  Yasha  would  put  on  a  shining  hat  with  a 
shade  in  front  and  behind,  and  a  broad  yellow  belt. 
Then  the  carriage  would  be  taken  out  about  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  house — an  antique  coach  of  the  old 
Polish  days— and  Matsko  put  in.  Hardly  would  my 
father  show  himself  at  the  house-door  than  Yasha 
would  give  a  magnificent  crack  with  his  whip,  Matsko 
would  wave  his  tail  some  time  in  hesitation  and  then 
start  at  a  sober  trot,  flinging  out  and  raising  his  hind 
legs,  and  strutting  like  a  cock.  Coming  level  with  the 
house-door  Yasha  would  pretend  that  only  with  great 
difficulty  could  he  restrain  the  impatient  horses, 
stretching  out  both  his  arms  and  pulling  back  the  reins 
with  all  his  might.  All  his  attention  would  seem  to  be 
swallowed  up  by  the  horses,  and  whatever  might  happen 
elsewhere  round  about  him,  Yasha  would  never  turn 
his  head.  Probably  he  did  all  this  to  sustain  our  family 
honour. 

Yasha  had  an  extraordinarily  high  opinion  of  my 
father.     It  would  happen  upon   occasion  that  some 


A   SLAV   SOUL  5 

poor  Jew  or  peasant  would  be  waiting  his  turn  in  the 
anteroom  while  my  father  was  occupied  with  another 
patient.  Yasha  would  often  enter  into  a  conversation 
with  him,  with  the  simple  object  of  increasing  my 
father's  popularity  as  a  doctor. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  he  would  ask,  taking  up  a 
position  of  importance  on  a  stool  and  surveying  the 
patient  before  him  from  head  to  foot.  "  Perhaps  you 
fancy  that  coming  to  my  master  is  like  asking  medical 
advice  of  the  clerk  at  the  village  police-station.  My 
master  not  only  stands  higher  than  such  a  one,  brother, 
but  higher  than  the  chief  of  police  himself.  He  knows 
about  everything  in  the  world,  my  brother.  Yes,  he 
does.    Now,  what's  the  matter  with  3'ou  ?  " 

"  There's  something  wrong  with  m}^  inside  .  .  .," 
the  sick  person  would  say,  "  my  chest  burns.  ..." 

"  Ah,  you  see — what  causes  that  ?  What  will  cure 
you  ?  You  don't  know,  and  I  don't.  But  my  master 
will  only  throw  a  glance  at  you  and  he'll  tell  you  at  once 
whether  you'll  live  or  die." 

Yasha  lived  very  economically,  and  he  spent  his 
money  in  buying  various  things  which  he  carefully 
stored  away  in  his  large  tin-bound  wooden  trunk. 
Nothing  gave  us  children  greater  pleasure  than  for 
Yasha  to  let  us  look  on  while  he  turned  out  these 
things.  On  the  inside  of  the  lid  of  the  trunk  were 
pasted  pictures  of  various  kinds.  There,  side  by  side 
with  portraits  of  terrifying  green-whiskered  generals 
who  had  fought  for  the  fatherland,  were  pictures  of 
martyrs,  engravings  from  the  Neva}  studies  of 
women's  heads,  and  fairy-tale  pictures  of  the  robber- 

^  A  popular  Russian  magazine  which  presents  its  readers 
with  many  supplements. 


6  A   SLAV   SOUL 

swallow  in  an  oak,  opening  wide  his  right  eye  to  receive 
the  arrow  of  Ilya-Muromets.  Yasha  would  bring  out 
from  the  trunk  a  whole  collection  of  coats,  waistcoats, 
top-coats,  fur-caps,  cups  and  saucers,  wire  boxes  orna- 
mented with  false  pearls  and  with  transfer  pictures 
of  flowers,  and  little  circular  mirrors.  Sometimes, 
from  a  side  pocket  of  the  trunk,  he  would  bring  out  an 
apple  or  a  couple  of  buns  strewn  with  poppy-seed, 
which  we  always  found  especially  appetising. 

Yasha  was  usually  very  precise  and  careful.  Once 
he  broke  a  large  decanter  and  my  father  scolded  him 
for  it.  The  next  day  Yasha  appeared  with  two  new 
decanters.  "  I  daresay  I  shall  break  another  one,"  he 
explained,  "  and  anyhow  we  can  find  a  use  for  the  two 
somehow."  He  kept  all  the  rooms  of  the  house  in 
perfect  cleanliness  and  order.  He  was  very  jealous  of 
all  his  rights  and  duties,  and  he  was  firmly  convinced 
that  no  one  could  clean  the  floors  as  well  as  he.  At  one 
time  he  had  a  great  quarrel  with  a  new  housemaid, 
Yevka,  as  to  which  of  them  could  clean  out  a  room 
better.  We  were  called  in  as  expert  judges,  and  in 
order  to  tease  Yasha  a  little  we  gave  the  palm  to  Yevka. 
But  children  as  we  were,  we  didn't  know  the  human 
soul,  and  we  little  suspected  what  a  cruel  blow  this  was 
to  Yasha.  He  went  out  of  the  room  without  saying  a 
word,  and  next  day  everybody  in  the  village  knew  that 
Yasha  was  drunk. 

Yasha  used  to  get  drunk  about  two  or  three  times  a 
year,  and  these  were  times  of  great  unhappiness  for  him 
and  for  all  the  family.  There  was  nobody  then  to  chop 
wood,  to  feed  the  horses,  to  bring  in  water.  For  five  or 
six  days  we  lost  sight  of  Yasha  and  heard  nothing  of  his 
doings.    On  the  seventh  day  he  came  back  without  hat 


A   SLAV   SOUL  7 

or  coat  and  in  a  dreadful  condition.  A  crowd  of  noisy 
Jews  followed  about  thirty  paces  behind  him,  and 
ragged  urchins  called  names  after  him  and  made  faces. 
They  all  knew  that  Yasha  was  going  to  hold  an  auction. 

Yasha  came  into  the  house,  and  then  in  a  minute  or 
so  ran  out  again  into  the  street,  carrying  in  his  arms 
almost  all  the  contents  of  his  trunk.  The  crowd  came 
round  him  quickly. 

"  How's  that  ?  You  won't  give  me  any  more  vodka, 
won't  you  ?  "  he  shouted,  shaking  out  trousers  and 
waistcoats  and  holding  them  up  in  his  hands.  "  What, 
I  haven't  any  more  money,  eh  ?  How  much  for  this  ? 
and  this,  and  this  ?  " 

And  one  after  another  he  flung  his  garments  among 
the  crowd,  who  snatched  at  them  with  tens  of  rapacious 
fingers. 

"  How  much '11  you  give  ?  "  Yasha  shouted  to  one  of 
the  Jews  who  had  possessed  himself  of  a  coat — "  how 
much'U  you  give,  mare's  head  ?  " 

"  We — 11,  I'll  give  you  fifty  copecks,"  drawled  the 
Jew,  his  eyes  staring. 

"  Fifty  copecks,  fifty  ?  "  Yasha  seemed  to  fall  into  a 
frenzy  of  despair.  "  I  don't  want  fifty  copecks.  Why 
not  say  twenty  ?  Give  me  gold  !  What's  this  ? 
Towels  ?  Give  me  ten  copecks  for  the  lot,  eh  ?  Oh 
that  you  had  died  of  fever  I  Oh  that  you  had  died 
when  you  were  young  !  " 

Our  village  has  its  policeman,  but  his  duties  consist 
mainly  in  standing  as  godfather  to  the  farmers'  children, 
and  on  such  an  occasion  as  this  "  the  poUce  "  took  no 
share  in  quelling  the  disorder,  but  acted  the  part  of  a 
modest  and  silent  looker-on.  But  my  father,  seeing 
the   plunder   of   Yasha's   property,   could   no   longer 


8  A  SLAV   SOUL 

restrain  his  rage  and  contempt.  "  He's  got  drunk 
again,  the  idiot,  and  now  he'll  lose  al)  his  goods," 
said  he,  unselfishly  hurling  himself  into  the  crovd.  In 
a  second  the  people  were  gone  and  he  found  himself 
alone  with  Yasha,  holding  in  his  hands  some  pitiful- 
looking  razor-case  or  other.  Yasha  staggered  in 
astonishment,  helplessly  raising  his  eyebrows,  and  then 
he  suddenly  fell  heavily  on  his  knees. 

"  Master  !  My  own  dear  master  !  See  what  they've 
done  to  me  !  " 

"Go  off  into  the  shed,"  ordered  my  father  angrily, 
pulling  himself  away  from  Yasha,  who  had  seized  the 
tail  of  his  coat  and  was  kissing  it.  "  Go  into  the  shed 
and  sleep  off  your  drunkenness  so  that  to  morrow  even 
the  smell  of  you  may  be  gone  !  " 

Yasha  went  away  humbly  into  the  shed,  and  then 
began  for  him  those  tormenting  hours  of  getting  sober, 
the  deep  and  oppressive  torture  of  repentance.  He 
lay  on  his  stomach  and  rested  his  head  on  the  palms  of 
his  hands,  staring  fixedly  at  some  point  in  front  of  him. 
He  knew  perfectly  well  what  was  taking  place  in  the 
house.  He  could  picture  to  himself  how  we  were  all 
begging  my  father  to  forgive  him,  and  how  my  father 
would  impatiently  wave  his  hands  and  refuse  to  listen. 
He  knew  very  well  that  probably  this  time  my  father 
would  be  implacable. 

Every  now  and  then  we  children  would  be  impelled 
by  curiosity  to  go  and  listen  at  the  door  of  the  shed, 
and  we  would  hear  strange  sounds  as  of  bellowing  and 
sobbing. 

In  such  times  of  affliction  and  degradation  Bouton 
counted  it  his  moral  duty  to  be  in  attendance  upon  the 
suffering  Yasha.     The  sagacious  creature  knew  very 


A   SLAV   SOUL  9 

well  that  ordinarily  when  Yasha  was  sober  he  would 
never  be  allowed  to  show  any  sign  of  familiarity  towards 
him.  Whenever  he  met  the  stern  figure  of  Yasha  in  the 
yard  Bouton  would  put  on  an  air  of  gazing  attentively 
into  the  distance  or  of  being  entirely  occupied  in 
snapping  at  flies.  We  children  used  to  fondle  Bouton 
and  feed  him  occasionally,  we  used  to  pull  the  burrs 
out  of  his  shaggy  coat  while  he  stood  in  patient  endur- 
ance, we  even  used  to  kiss  him  on  his  cold,  wet  nose. 
And  1  always  wondered  that  Bouton's  sympathy  and 
devotion  used  to  be  given  entirely  to  Yasha,  from 
whom  he  seemed  to  get  nothing  but  kicks.  Now,  alas  ! 
when  bitter  experience  has  taught  me  to  look  all  round 
and  on  the  under  side  of  things,  I  begin  to  suspect  that 
the  source  of  Bouton's  devotion  was  not  really  enig- 
matical—it was  Yasha  who  fed  Bouton  every  day,  and 
brought  him  his  dish  of  scraps  after  dinner. 

In  ordinary  times,  I  say,  Bouton  would  never  have 
risked  forcing  himself  upon  Yasha's  attention.  But  in 
these  days  of  repentance  he  went  daringly  into  the  shed 
and  planted  himself  by  the  side  of  Yasha,  staring  into  a 
corner  and  breathing  deeply  and  sympathetically.  If 
this  seemed  to  do  no  good,  he  would  begin  to  lick  his 
patron's  face  and  hands,  timidly  at  first,  but  afterwards 
boldly  and  more  boldly.  It  would  end  by  Yasha 
putting  his  arms  round  Bouton's  neck  and  sobbing, 
then  Bouton  would  insinuate  himself  by  degrees  under 
Yasha's  body,  and  the  voices  of  the  two  would  mingle 
in  a  strange  and  touching  duet. 

Next  day  Yasha  came  into  the  house  at  early  dawn, 
gloomy  and  downcast.  He  cleaned  the  floor  and  the 
furniture  and  put  everything  into  a  state  of  shining 
cleanliness  ready  for  the  coming  of  my  father,  the  very 


\ 


10  A  SLAV   SOUL 

thought  of  whom  made  Yasha  tremble.  But  my  father 
was  not  to  be  appeased.  He  handed  Yasha  his  wages 
and  his  passport  and  ordered  him  to  leave  the  place  at 
once.     Prayers  and  oaths  of  repentance  were  vain. 

Then  Yasha  resolved  to  take  extreme  measures. 

"  So  it  means  you're  sending  me  away,  sir,  does  it  ?  " 
he  asked  boldly. 

"  Yes,  and  at  once." 

"  Well  then,  I  won't  go.  You  send  me  away  now, 
and  you'll  simply  all  die  off  like  beetles.  I  won't  go. 
I'll  stay  years  !  " 

"  I  shall  send  for  the  policeman  to  take  you  off." 

"  Take  me  off,"  said  Yasha  in  amazement.  "  Well, 
let  him.  All  the  town  knows  that  I've  served  you 
faithfully  for  twenty  years,  and  then  I'm  sent  off  by 
the  police.  Let  them  take  me.  It  won't  be  shame  to 
me  but  to  you,  sir  !  " 

And  Yasha  really  stayed  on.  Threats  had  no  effect 
upon  him.  He  paid  no  attention  to  them,  but  worked 
untiringly  in  an  exaggerated  way,  trying  to  make  up 
for  lost  time.  That  night  he  didn't  go  into  the  kitchen 
to  sleep,  but  lay  down  in  Matsko's  stall,  and  the  horse 
stood  up  all  night,  afraid  to  move  and  unable  to  lie 
down  in  his  accustomed  place.  My  father  was  a  good- 
natured  and  indolent  man,  who  easily  submitted  him- 
self to  surrounding  circumstances  and  to  people  and 
things  with  which  he  was  familiar.  By  the  evening  he 
had  forgiven  Yasha. 

Yasha  was  a  handsome  man,  of  a  fair,  Little-Russian, 
melancholy  type.  Young  men  and  girls  looked  ad- 
miringly at  him,  but  not  one  of  them  running  like  a 
quail  across  the  yard  would  have  dared  to  give  him  a 
playful  punch  in  the  side  or  even  an  inviting  smile — 


A   SLAV   SOUL  II 

there  was  too  much  haughtiness  in  him  and  icy  contempt 
for  the  fair  sex.  And  the  dehghts  of  a  family  hearth 
seemed  to  have  httle  attraction  for  him.  "  When  a 
woman  estabUshes  herself  in  a  cottage,"  he  used  to  say 
intolerantly,  "  the  air  becomes  bad  at  once."  However, 
he  did  once  make  a  move  in  that  direction,  and  then  he 
surprised  us  more  than  ever  before.  We  were  seated 
at  tea  one  evening  when  Yasha  came  into  the  dining- 
room.  He  was  perfectly  sober,  but  his  face  wore  a  look 
of  agitation,  and  pointing  mysteriously  with  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder  towards  the  door,  he  asked  in  a 
whisper,  "  Can  I  bring  them  in  ?  " 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  asked  father.    "  Let  them  come  in." 

All  eyes  were  turned  in  expectation  towards  the  door, 
from  behind  which  there  crept  a  strange  being.  It  was 
a  woman  of  over  fifty  years  of  age,  ragged,  drunken, 
degraded  and  foolish-looking. 

"  Give  us  your  blessing,  sir,  we're  going  to  be 
married,"  said  Yasha,  dropping  on  his  knees.  "Get 
down  on  your  knees,  fool,"  cried  he,  addressing  the 
woman  and  pulling  her  roughly  by  the  sleeve. 

My  father  with  difficulty  overcame  his  astonishment. 
He  talked  to  Yasha  long  and  earnestly,  and  told  him 
he  must  be  going  out  of  his  mind  to  think  of  marrying 
such  a  creature.  Yasha  listened  in  silence,  not  getting 
up  from  his  knees ;  the  silly  woman  knelt  too  all  the  time. 

"  So  you  don't  allow  us  to  marry,  sir  ?  "  asked 
Yasha  at  last. 

"  Not  only  do  I  not  allow  you,  but  I'm  quite  sure 
you  won't  do  such  a  thing,"  answered  my  father. 

"  That  means  that  I  won't,"  said  Yasha  resolutely. 
"  Get  up,  you  fool,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  woman. 
"  You  hear  what  the  master  says.     Go  away  at  once." 


12  A  SLAV  SOUL 

And  with  these  words  he  hauled  the  unexpected 
guest  away  by  the  collar,  and  they  both  went  quickly 
out  of  the  room. 

This  was  the  only  attempt  Yasha  made  towards  the 
state  of  matrimony.  Each  of  us  explained  the  affair 
to  ourselves  in  our  own  way,  but  we  never  understood 
it  fully,  for  whenever  we  asked  Yasha  further  about 
it,  he  only  waved  his  hands  in  vexation. 

Still  more  mysterious  and  unexpected  was  his  death. 
It  happened  so  suddenly  and  enigmatically  and  had 
apparently  so  little  connection  with  any  previous 
circumstance  in  Yasha's  life  that  if  I  were  forced  to 
recount  what  happened  I  feel  I  couldn't  do  it  at  all 
well.  Yet  all  the  same,  I  am  confident  that  what  I  say 
really  took  place,  and  that  none  of  the  clear  impression 
of  it  is  at  all  exaggerated. 

One  day,  in  the  railway  station  three  versts  from 
the  village,  a  certain  well-dressed  young  man,  a 
passenger  from  one  of  the  trains,  hanged  himself  in  a 
lavatory.  Yasha  at  once  asked  my  father  if  he  might 
go  and  see  the  body. 

Four  hours  later  he  returned  and  went  straight  into 
the  dining-room — we  had  visitors  at  the  time — and 
stood  by  the  door.  It  was  only  two  days  after  one  of 
his  drinking  bouts  and  repentance  in  the  shed,  and  he 
was  quite  sober. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  my  mother. 

Yasha  suddenly  burst  into  a  guffaw.  "  He — he — he," 
said  he.  "  His  tongue  was  all  hanging  out.  .  .  .  The 
gentleman.  .  .  ." 

My  father  ordered  him  into  the  kitchen.  Our  guests 
talked  a  little  about  Yasha's  idiosyncrasies  and  then 
soon  forgot  about  the  little  incident.    Next  day,  about 


A  SLAV   SOUL  13 

eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Yasha  went  up  to  my 
Uttle  sister  in  the  nursery  and  kissed  her. 

"  Good-bye,  missy." 

"  Good-bye,  Yasha,"  answered  the  little  one,  not 
looking  up  from  her  doll. 

Half  an  hour  later  Yevka,  the  housemaid,  ran  into 
my  father's  study,  pale  and  trembhng. 

"  Oh,  sir  .  .  .  there  ...  in  the  attic  .  .  .  he's 
hanged  himself  .  .  .  Yasha.  .  .  ." 

And  she  fell  down  in  a  swoon. 

On  a  nail  in  the  attic  hung  the  Ufeless  body  of  Yasha. 

When  the  coroner  questioned  the  cook,  she  said 
that  Yasha's  manner  had  been  very  strange  on  the  day 
of  his  death. 

"  He  stood  before  the  looking-glass,"  said  she, 
"  and  pressed  his  hands  so  tightly  round  his  neck  that 
his  face  went  quite  red  and  his  tongue  stuck  out  and 
his  eyes  bulged.  ...  He  must  have  been  seeing  what 
he  would  look  like." 

The  coroner  brought  in  a  verdict  of  "  suicide  while 
in  a  state  of  unsound  mind." 

Yasha  was  buried  in  a  special  grave  dug  for  the 
purpose  in  the  ravine  on  the  other  side  of  the  wood. 
Next  day  Bouton  could  not  be  found  anywhere.  The 
faithful  dog  had  run  off  to  the  grave  and  lay  there 
howling,  mourning  the  death  of  his  austere  friend. 
Afterwards  he  disappeared  and  we  never  saw  him  again. 

And  now  that  I  myself  am  nearly  what  may  be  called 
an  old  man,  I  go  over  my  varied  recollections  now  and 
then,  and  when  I  come  to  the  thought  of  Yasha,  every 
time  I  say  to  myself :  "  What  a  strange  soul — faithful, 
pure,  contradictory,  absurd — and  great.  Was  it  not  a 
truly  Slav  soul  that  dwelt  in  the  body  of  Yasha  ?  " 


II 

THE  SONG  AND   THE   DANCE 

We  lived  at  that  time  in  the  Government  of  Riazan, 
some  120  versts  from  the  nearest  railway  station  and 
even  25  versts  from  the  large  trading  village  of  Tuma. 
"  Tuma  is  iron  and  its  people  are  of  stone,"  as  the 
local  inhabitants  say  of  themselves.  We  lived  on  an 
old  untenanted  estate,  where  in  1812  an  immense  house 
of  wood  had  been  constructed  to  accommodate  the 
French  prisoners.  The  house  had  columns,  and  a 
park  with  lime  trees  had  been  made  around  it  to 
remind  the  prisoners  of  Versailles. 

Imagine  our  comical  situation.  There  were  twenty- 
three  rooms  at  our  disposal,  but  only  one  of  them  had 
a  stove  and  was  warmed,  and  even  in  that  room  it  was 
so  cold  that  water  froze  in  it  in  the  early  morning  and 
the  door  was  frosted  at  the  fastenings.  The  post  came 
sometimes  once  a  week,  sometimes  once  in  two  months, 
and  was  brought  by  a  chance  peasant,  generally  an 
old  man  with  the  packet  under  his  shaggy  snow-strewn 
coat,  the  addresses  wet  and  smudged,  the  backs  un- 
sealed and  stuck  again  by  inquisitive  postmasters. 
Around  us  was  an  ancient  pine  wood  where  bears 
prowled,  and  whence  even  in  broad  daylight  the 
hungry  wolves  sallied  forth  and  snatched  away  yawning 
dogs  from  the  street  of  the  hamlet  near  by.  The  local 
population  spoke  in  a  dialect  we  did  not  understand. 


THE  SONG  AND  THE  DANCE     15 

now  in  a  sing-song  drawl,  now  coughing  and  hooting, 
and  they  stared  at  us  surhly  and  without  restraint. 
They  were  firmly  convinced  that  the  forest  belonged  to 
God  and  the  muzhik  alone,  and  the  lazy  German 
steward  only  knew  how  much  wood  they  stole.  There 
was  at  our  service  a  splendid  French  library  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  though  all  the  magnificent  bindings 
were  mouse-eaten.  There  was  an  old  portrait  gallery 
with  the  canvases  ruined  from  damp,  mould,  and 
smoke. 

Picture  to  yourself  the  neighbouring  hamlet  all 
overblown  with  snow,  and  the  inevitable  village  idiot, 
Serozha,  who  goes  naked  even  in  the  coldest  weather  ; 
the  priest  who  does  not  play  "  preference  "  on  a  fast 
day,  but  writes  denunciations  to  the  starosta,  a  stupid, 
artful  man,  diplomat  and  beggar,  speaking  in  a  dreadful 
Petersburg  accent.  If  you  see  all  this  you  understand 
to  what  a  degree  of  boredom  we  attained.  We  grew 
tired  of  encompassing  bears,  of  hunting  hares  with 
hounds,  of  shooting  with  pistols  at  a  target  through 
three  rooms  at  a  distance  of  twenty-five  paces,  of 
writing  humorous  verses  in  the  evening.  Of  course  we 
quarrelled. 

Yes,  and  if  you  had  asked  us  individually  why  we 
had  come  to  this  place  I  should  think  not  one  of  us 
would  have  answered  the  question.  I  was  painting  at 
that  time  ;  Valerian  Alexandrovitch  wrote  symbolical 
verses,  and  Vaska  amused  himself  with  Wagner  and 
played  Tristan  and  Iseult  on  the  old,  ruined,  yellow- 
keyed  clavicordia. 

But  about  Chirstmas-time  the  village  began  to 
enliven,  and  in  all  the  little  clearings  round  about, 
in  Tristenka,  in  Borodina,  Breslina,   Shustova,  Niki- 


i6  A   SLAV   SOUL 

forskaya  and  Kosli  the  peasants  began  to  brew  beer — 
such  thick  beer  that  it  stained  your  hands  and  face  at 
the  touch,  Uke  Ume  bark.  There  was  so  much  drunken- 
ness among  the  peasants,  even  before  the  festival, 
that  in  Dagileva  a  son  broke  his  father's  head,  and  in 
Krughtsi  an  old  man  drank  himself  to  death.  But 
Christmas  was  a  diversion  for  us.  We  started  paying 
the  customary  visits  and  offering  congratulations  to  all 
the  local  officials  and  peasants  of  our  acquaintance. 
First  we  went  to  the  priest,  then  to  the  psalm-singer 
of  the  church,  then  to  the  church  watchman,  then  to 
the  two  school-mistresses.  After  the  school-mistresses 
we  fared  more  pleasantly.  We  turned  up  at  the  doctor's 
at  Tuma,  then  trooped  off  to  the  district  clerk,  where 
a  real  banquet  awaited  us,  then  to  the  policeman,  then 
to  the  lame  apothecary,  then  to  the  local  peasant 
tyrant  who  had  grown  rich  and  held  a  score  of  other 
peasants  in  his  own  grasp,  and  possessed  all  the  cord, 
linen,  grain,  wood,  whips  in  the  neighbourhood.  And 
we  went  and  went  on  ! 

It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  we  felt  a  little 
awkward  now  and  then.  We  couldn't  manage  to  get 
into  the  tempo  of  the  life  there.  We  were  really  out  of 
it.  This  life  had  creamed  and  mantled  for  years 
without  number.  In  spite  of  our  pleasant  manners 
and  apparent  ease  we  were,  all  the  same,  people  from 
another  planet.  Then  there  was  a  disparity  in  our 
mutual  estimation  of  one  another  :  we  looked  at  them 
as  through  a  microscope,  they  at  us  as  through  a  tele- 
scope. Certainly  we  made  attempts  to  accommodate 
ourselves,  and  when  the  psalm-singer's  servant,  a  woman 
of  forty,  with  warty  hands  all  chocolate  colour  from  the 
reins  of  the  horse  she  put  in  the  sledge  when  she  went 


THE  SONG  AND  THE  DANCE     17 

with  a  bucket  to  the  well,  sang  of  an  evening,  we  did 
what  we  thought  we  ought  to  do.  She  would  look 
ashamed,  lower  her  eyes,  fold  her  arms  and  sing : 

"  Andray  Nikolaevitch 
We  have  come  to  you. 
We  wish  to  trouble  you. 
But  we  have  come 
And  please  to  take 
The  one  of  us  you  love," 

Then  we  would  boldly  make  to  kiss  her  on  the  lips, 
which  we  did  in  spite  of  feigned  resistance  and 
screams. 

And  we  would  make  a  circle.  One  day  there  were  a 
lot  of  us  there  ;  four  students  on  holiday  from  an 
ecclesiastical  college,  the  psalm-singer,  a  housekeeper 
from  a  neighbouring  estate,  the  two  school-mistresses, 
the  policeman  in  his  uniform,  the  deacon,  the  local 
horse-doctor,  and  we  three  aesthetes.  We  went  round 
and  round  in  a  dance,  and  sang,  roared,  swinging  now 
this  way,  now  that,  and  the  Hon  of  the  company,  a 
student  named  Vozdvizhensky,  stood  in  the  middle 
and  ordered  our  movements,  dancing  himself  the  while 
and  snapping  his  fingers  over  his  head : 

"The  queen  was  in  the  town,  yes,  the  town, 
And  the  prince,  the  Uttle  prince,  ran  away. 
Found  a  bride,  did  the  prince,  found  a  bride. 
She  was  nice,  yes  she  was,  she  was  nice. 
And  a  ring  got  the  prince  for  her,  a  ring." 

After  a  while  the  giddy  whirl  of  the  dance  came  to  an 

end,  and  we  stopped  and  began  to  sing  to  one  another, 

in  solemn  tones : 

"  The  royal  gates  were  opened. 
Bowed  the  king  to  the  queen, 
And  the  queen  to  the  king. 
But  lower  bowed  the  queen." 


s.s. 


i8  A  SLAV  SOUL 

And  then  the  horse-doctor  and  the  psalm-singer  had  a 
competition  as  to  who  should  bow  lower  to  the  other. 

*^  ^  ^  4£. 

'7^  -Tf  ^  "Tr 

Our  visiting  continued,  and  at  last  came  to  the  school- 
house  at  Tuma.  That  was  inevitable,  since  there  had 
been  long  rehearsals  of  an  entertainment  which  the 
children  were  going  to  give  entirely  for  our  benefit — 
Petersburg  guests.  We  went  in.  The  Christmas  tree 
was  lit  simultaneously  by  a  touch-paper.  As  for  the 
programme,  I  knew  it  by  heart  before  we  went  in. 
There  were  several  little  tableaux,  illustrative  of  songs 
of  the  countryside.  It  was  all  poorly  done,  but  it 
must  be  confessed  that  one  six-year-old  mite  playing 
the  part  of  a  peasant,  wearing  a  huge  cap  of  dog-skin 
and  his  father's  great  leather  gloves  with  only  places 
for  hand  and  thumb,  was  delightful,  with  his  serious 
face  and  hoarse  little  bass  voice — a  born  artist. 

The  remainder  was  very  disgusting.  All  done  in  the 
false  popular  style. 

I  had  long  been  familiar  with  the  usual  entertain- 
ment items  :  Little-Russian  songs  mispronounced  to 
an  impossible  point ;  verses  and  silly  embroidery 
patterns :  "  There's  a  Christmas  tree,  there's  Pet- 
rushka,  there's  a  horse,  there's  a  steam-engine."  The 
teacher,  a  little  consumptive  fellow,  got  up  for  the 
occasion  in  a  long  frock-coat  and  stiff  shirt,  played  the 
fiddle  in  fits  and  starts,  or  beat  time  with  his  bow, 
or  tapped  a  child  on  the  head  with  it  now  and  then. 

The  honorary  guardian  of  the  school,  a  notary  from 
another  town,  chewed  his  gums  all  the  time  and  stuck 
out  his  short  parrot's  tongue  with  sheer  delight,  feeling 
that  the  whole  show  had  been  got  up  in  his  honour. 

At  last  the  teacher  got  to  the  most  important  item 


THE   SONG  AND   THE   DANCE  19 

on  his  programme.  We  had  laughed  up  till  then,  our 
turn  was  coming  to  weep.  A  little  girl  of  twelve  or 
thirteen  came  out,  the  daughter  of  a  watchman,  her 
face,  by  the  way,  not  at  all  like  his  horse-like  profile. 
She  was  the  top  girl  in  the  school  and  she  began  her 
little  song : 

"  The  jumping  little  grasshopper  sang  the  summer  through. 
Never  once  considering  how  the  winter  would  blow  in 
his  eyes." 

Then  a  shaggy  little  boy  of  seven,  in  his  father's  felt 
boots,  took  up  his  part,  addressing  the  watchman's 
daughter : 

"  That's   strange,   neighbour.     Didn't    you   work   in   the 

summer  ?  " 
"What  was   there   to  work   for?     There  was  plenty  of 

grass." 

Where  was  our  famous  Russian  hospitality  ? 

To  the  question,  "  What  did  you  do  in  the  summer  ?  " 
the  grasshopper  could  only  reply,  "  I  sang  all  the 
time." 

At  this  answer  the  teacher,  Kapitonitch,  waved  his 
bow  and  his  fiddle  at  one  and  the  same  time — oh,  that 
was  an  effect  rehearsed  long  before  that  evening  !— 
and  suddenly  in  a  mysterious  half-whisper  the  whole 
choir  began  to  sing  : 

"  You've  sung  your  song,  you  call  that  doing, 
You've  sung  all  the  summer,  then  dance  all  the  winter, 
You've  sung  your  song,  then  dance  all  the  winter, 
Dance  all  the  winter,  dance  all  the  winter. 
You've  sung  the  song,  then  dance  the  dance." 

I  confess  that  my  hair  stood  on  end  as  if  each 
individual  hair  were  made  of  glass,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  the  eyes  of  the  children  and  of  the  peasants 


C   2 


20  A  SLAV   SOUL 

packing  the  schoolroom  were  all  fixed  on  me  as  if 

repeating  that  d d  phrase  : 

"  You've  sung  the  song,  you  call  that  doing. 
You've  sung  the  song,  then  dance  the  dance." 

I  don't  know  how  long  this  drone  of  evil  boding  and 
sinister  recitation  went  on.  But  I  remember  clearly 
that  during  those  minutes  an  appalling  idea  went 
through  my  brain.  "  Here  we  stand,"  thought  I,  "  a 
little  band  of  intelligentsia,  face  to  face  with  an 
innumerable  peasantry,  the  most  enigmatical,  the 
greatest,  and  the  most  abased  people  in  the  world. 
What  connects  us  with  them  ?  Nothing.  Neither 
language,  nor  religion,  nor  labour,  nor  art.  Our  poetry 
would  be  ridiculous  to  their  ears,  absurd,  incompre- 
hensible. Our  refined  painting  would  be  simply  useless 
and  senseless  smudging  in  their  eyes.  Our  quest  for 
gods  and  making  of  gods  would  seem  to  them 
stupidity,  our  music  merely  a  tedious  noise.  Our 
science  would  not  satisfy  them.  Our  complex  work 
would  seem  laughable  or  pitiful  to  them,  the  austere 
and  patient  labourers  of  the  fields.  Yes.  On  the 
dreadful  day  of  reckoning  what  answer  shall  we  give  to 
this  child,  wild  beast,  wise  man,  and  animal,  to  this 
many-milhon-headed  giant  ?  "  We  shall  only  be  able 
to  say  sorrowfully,  "  We  sang  aU  the  time.  We  sang 
our  song." 

And  he  will  reply  with  an  artful  peasant  smile, 
"  Then  go  and  dance  the  dance." 

And  I  know  that  my  companions  felt  as  I  did. 
We  went  out  of  the  entertainment-room  silent,  not 
exchanging  opinions. 

Three  days  later  we  said  good-bye,  and  since  that 
time  have  been  rather  cold  towards  one  another.    We 


THE  SONG  AND    THE   DANCE  21 

had  been  suddenly  chilled  in  our  consciences  and  made 
ashamed,  as  if  these  innocent  mouths  of  sleepy  children 
had  pronounced  death  sentence  upon  us.  And  when 
I  returned  from  the  post  of  Ivan  Karaulof  to  Goreli, 
and  from  Goreli  to  Koslof,  and  from  Koslof  to  Zintabrof , 
and  then  further  by  railroad  there  followed  me  all  the 
time  that  ironical,  seemingly  malicious  phrase,  "  Then 
dance  the  dance." 

God  alone  knows  the  destiny  of  the  Russian  people. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  suppose,  if  it  should  be  necessary,  we'll 
dance  it  I 

I  travelled  a  whole  night  to  the  railway  station. 

On  the  bare  frosted  branches  of  the  birches  sat  the 
stars,  as  if  the  Lord  Himself  had  with  His  own  hands 
decorated  the  trees.  And  I  thought,  "  Yes,  it's 
beautiful."  But  I  could  not  banish  that  ironical 
thought,  "Then  dance  the  dance." 


Ill 

EASTER   DAY 

On  his  way  from  Petersburg  to  the  Crimea  Colonel 
Voznitsin   purposely   broke   his   journey   at   Moscow, 
where  his  childhood  and  youth  had  been  spent,  and 
stayed  there  two  days.     It  is  said  that  some  animals 
when  they  feel  that  they  are  about  to  die  go  round  to 
all  their  favourite  and  familiar  haunts,  taking  leave 
of  them,  as  it  were.    Voznitsin  was  not  threatened  by 
the  near  approach  of  death  ;   at  forty  years  of  age  he 
was  still  strong  and  well-preserved.    But  in  his  tastes 
and  feelings  and  in  his  relations  with  the  world  he  had 
reached  the  point  from  which  life  slips  almost  imper- 
ceptibly into  old  age.     He  had  begun  to  narrow  the 
circle  of  his  enjoyments  and  pleasures  ;    a  habit  of 
retrospection  and  of  sceptical  suspicion  was  manifest 
in  his  behaviour  ;   his  dumb,  unconscious,  animal  love 
of  Nature  had  become  less  and  was  giving  place  to  a 
more  refined  appreciation  of  the  shades  of  beauty  ; 
he  was  no  longer  agitated  and  disturbed  by  the  adorable 
lovehness  of  women,  but  chiefly — and  this  was  the  first 
sign  of  spiritual  blight— he  began  to  think  about  his 
own  death.     Formerly  he  had  thought  about  it  in  a 
careless  and  transient  fashion — sooner  or  later  death 
would  come,  not  to  him  personally,  but  to  some  other, 
someone   of   the   name   of   Voznitsin.     But   now  he 
thought  of  it  with  a  grievous,  sharp,  cruel,  unwavering, 


EASTER   DAY  23 

merciless  clearness,  so  that  at  nights  his  heart  beat  in 
terror  and  his  blood  ran  cold.  It  was  this  feehng 
which  had  impelled  him  to  visit  once  more  those 
places  familiar  to  his  youth,  to  hve  over  again  in 
memory  those  dear,  painfully  sweet  recollections  of 
his  childhood,  overshadowed  with  a  poetical  sadness, 
to  wound  his  soul  once  more  with  the  sweet  grief  of 
recalling  that  which  was  for  ever  past — the  irrevocable 
purity  and  clearness  of  his  first  impressions  of  life. 

And  so  he  did.     He  stayed  two  days  in  Moscow, 
returning  to  his   old  haunts.     He   went   to   see   the 
boarding-house  where  once  he  had  Uved  for  six  years 
in  the  charge  of  his  form  mistress,  being  educated 
under  the  Froebelian  system.     Everything  there  was 
altered  and  reconstituted  ;    the  boys'  department  no 
longer  existed,  but  in  the  girls'  class-rooms  there  was 
still  the  pleasant  and  alluring  smell  of  freshly  varnished 
tables   and   stools ;     there   was   still   the   marvellous 
mixture  of  odours  in  the  dining-room,  with  a  special 
smell  of  the  apples  which  now,  as  then,  the  scholars 
hid  in  their  private  cupboards.     He  visited  his  old 
military  school,   and  went    into    the    private  chapel 
where  as  a  cadet  he  used  to  serve  at  the  altar,  swinging 
the    censer    and  coming  out   in  his  surpHce  with  a 
candle  at  the  reading  of  the  Gospel,  but  also  steaUng 
the  wax  candle-ends,  drinking  the  wine  after  Com- 
munion, and  sometimes  making  grimaces  at  the  funny 
deacon  and  sending  him  into  fits  of  laughter,  so  that 
once  he  was  solemnly  sent  away  from  the  altar  by  the 
priest,  a  magnificent  and  plump  greybeard,  strikingly 
hke  the  picture  of  the  God  of  Sabaoth  behind  the  altar. 
He  went   along   all   the   old   streets,   and   purposely 
lingered  in  front  of  the  houses  where  first  of  all  had 


24  A   SLAV   SOUL 

come  to  him  the  naive  and  childish  languishments  of 
love  ;  he  went  into  the  courtyards  and  up  the  stair- 
cases, hardly  recognising  any  of  them,  so  much 
alteration  and  rebuilding  had  taken  place  in  the 
quarter  of  a  century  of  his  absence.  And  he  noticed 
with  irritation  and  surprise  that  his  staled  and  life- 
wearied  soul  remained  cold  and  unmoved,  and  did 
not  reflect  in  itself  the  old  familiar  grief  for  the  past, 
that  gentle  grief,  so  bright,  so  calm,  reflective  and 
submissive. 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes — it's  old  age,"  he  repeated  to  himself, 
nodding  his  head  sadly.  ..."  Old  age,  old  age,  old 
age.  ...  It  can't  be  helped.  ..." 

After  he  left  Moscow  he  was  kept  in  Kief  for  a  whole 
day  on  business,  and  only  arrived  at  Odessa  at  the 
beginning  of  Holy  Week.  But  it  had  been  bad 
weather  for  some  days,  and  Voznitsin,  who  was  a 
very  bad  sailor,  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  embark. 
It  was  only  on  the  morning  of  Easter  Eve  that  the 
weather  became  fine  and  the  sea  calm. 

At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  steamer  Grand 
Duke  Alexis  left  the  harbour.  Voznitsin  had  no 
one  to  see  him  off,  for  which  he  was  thankful.  He 
had  no  patience  with  the  somewhat  hypocritical  and 
always  difficult  comedy  of  farewell,  when  God  knows 
why  one  stands  a  full  half-hour  at  the  side  of  the 
boat  and  looks  down  upon  the  people  standing  on  the 
pier,  smiling  constrained  smiles,  throwing  kisses, 
calling  out  from  time  to  time  in  a  theatrical  tone 
foolish  and  meaningless  phrases  for  the  benefit  of  the 
bystanders,  till  at  last,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  one  feels 
the  steamer  begin  slowly  and  heavily  to  move  away. 

There  were  very  few  passengers  on  board,  and  the 


EASTER   DAY  25 

majority  of  them  were  third-class  people.      In  the 
first-class  there  were  only  two  others  besides  himself 
a  lady  and  her  daughter,  as  the  steward  informed  him. 
"  That's  good,"  thought  he  to  himself. 

Everything  promised  a  smooth  and  easy  voyage. 
His  cabin  was  excellent,  large  and  well  lighted,  with 
two  divans  and  no  upper  berths  at  all.  The  sea, 
though  gently  tossing,  grew  gradually  calmer,  and  the 
ship  did  not  roll.  At  sunset,  however,  there  was  a 
fresh  breeze  on  deck. 

Voznitsin  slept  that  night  with  open  windows, 
and  more  soundly  than  he  had  slept  for  many  months, 
perhaps  for  a  year  past.  When  the  boat  arrived  at 
Eupatoria  he  was  awakened  by  the  noise  of  the 
cranes  and  by  the  running  of  the  sailors  on  the  deck. 
He  got  up,  dressed  quickly,  ordered  a  glass  of  tea,  and 
went  above. 

The  steamer  was  at  anchor  in  a  half-transparent 
mist  of  a  milky  rose  tint,  pierced  by  the  golden  rays 
of  the  rising  sun.  Scarcely  noticeable  in  the  distance, 
the  fiat  shore  lay  glimmering.  The  sea  was  gently 
lapping  the  steamer's  sides.  There  was  a  marvellous 
odour  of  fish,  pitch  and  seaweed.  From  a  barge 
alongside  they  were  lading  packages  and  bales. 
The  captain's  directions  rang  out  clearly  in  the  pure 
air  of  morning :  "  Maina,  vera,  vera  po  malu,  stop  !  " 

When  the  barge  had  gone  off  and  the  steamer 
began  to  move  again,  Voznitsin  went  down  into  the 
dining  saloon.  A  strange  sight  met  his  gaze.  The 
tables  were  placed  flat  against  the  walls  of  the  long 
room  and  were  decorated  with  gay  flowers  and  covered 
with  Easter  fare.  There  were  lambs  roasted  whole, 
and   turkeys,    with   their   long   necks   supported   by 


26  A  SLAV  SOUL 

unseen  rods  and  wire,  raised  their  foolish  heads  on 
high.  Their  thin  necks  were  bent  into  the  form  of 
an  interrogation  mark,  and  they  trembled  and  shook 
with  every  movement  of  the  steamer.  They  might 
have  been  strange  antediluvian  beasts,  like  the  bronto- 
zauri  or  ichthauri  one  sees  in  pictures,  lying  there 
upon  the  large  dishes,  their  legs  bent  under  them, 
their  heads  on  their  twisted  necks  looking  around 
with  a  comical  and  cautious  wariness.  The  clear 
sunlight  streamed  through  the  port-holes  and  made 
golden  circles  of  light  on  the  tablecloths,  transforming 
the  colours  of  the  Easter  eggs  into  purple  and  sapphire, 
and  making  the  flowers — hyacinths,  pansies,  tulips, 
violets,  wallflowers,  forget-me-nots — glow  with  living 
fire. 

The  other  first-class  passenger  also  came  down  for 
tea.  Voznitsin  threw  a  passing  glance  at  her.  She 
was  neither  young  nor  beautiful,  but  she  had  a  tall, 
well-preserved,  rather  stout  figure,  and  was  well  and 
simply  dressed  in  an  ample  light -coloured  cloak  with 
silk  collar  and  cuffs.  Her  head  was  covered  with  a 
light-blue,  semi-transparent  gauze  scarf.  She  drank 
her  tea  and  read  a  book  at  the  same  time,  a  French 
book  Voznitsin  judged  by  its  small  compact  shape 
and  pale  yellow  cover. 

There  was  something  strangely  and  remotely  familiar 
about  her,  not  so  much  in  her  face  as  in  the  turn  of 
her  neck  and  the  lift  of  her  eyebrows  when  she  cast 
an  answering  glance  at  him.  But  this  unconscious 
impression  was  soon  dispersed  and  forgotten. 

The  heat  of  the  saloon  soon  sent  the  passengers  on 
deck,  and  they  sat  down  on  the  seats  on  the  sheltered 
side  of  the  boat.     The  lady  continued  to  read,  though 


EASTER   DAY  27 

she  often  let  her  book  fall  on  to  her  knee  while  she 
gazed  upon  the  sea,  on  the  dolphins  sporting  there, 
on  the  distant  cliffs  of  the  shore,  purple  in  colour  or 
covered  with  a  scant  verdure. 

Voznitsin  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  deck, 
turning  when  he  reached  the  cabin.  Once,  as  he 
passed  the  lady,  she  looked  up  at  him  attentively 
with  a  kind  of  questioning  curiosity,  and  once  more 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  met  her  before  somewhere. 
Little  by  little  this  insistent  feeling  began  to  disquiet 
him,  and  he  felt  that  the  lady  was  experiencing  the 
same  feelings.  But  try  as  he  would  he  could  not 
remember  meeting  her  before. 

Suddenly,  passing  her  for  the  twentieth  time,  he 
almost  involuntarily  stopped  in  front  of  her,  saluted 
in  military  fashion,  and  lightly  clicking  his  spurs 
together  said : 

"  Pardon  my  boldness  .  .  .  but  I  can't  get  rid  of  a 
feehng  that  I  know  you,  or  rather  that  long  ago  I 
used  to  know  you." 

She  was  quite  a  plain  woman,  of  blonde  almost  red 
colouring,  grey  hair — though  this  was  only  noticeable 
at  a  near  view  owing  to  its  original  light  colour — 
pale  eyelashes  over  blue  eyes,  and  a  faded  freckled 
face.  Her  mouth  only  seemed  fresh,  being  full  and 
rosy,  with  beautifully  curved  lips. 

"  And  I  also,"  said  she.  "  Just  fancy,  I've  been 
sitting  here  and  wondering  where  we  could  have 
met.  My  name  is  Lvova — does  that  remind  you  of 
anything  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  it  doesn't,"  answered  he,  "  but 
my  name  is  Voznitsin." 

The  lady's  eyes  gleamed  suddenly  with  a  gay  and 


28  A  SLAV  SOUL 

familiar  smile,  and  Voznitsin  saw  that  she  knew  him 
at  once. 

"  Voznitsin,  Kolya  Voznitsin,"  she  cried  joyfully, 
holding  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  Is  it  possible  I  didn't 
recognise  you  ?  Lvova,  of  course,  is  my  married 
name.  .  .  .  But  no,  no,  you  will  remember  me  in 
time.  .  .  .  Think  :  Moscow,  Borisoglebsky  Street, 
the  house  belonging  to  the  church.  .  .  .  Well  ?  Don't 
you  remember  your  school  chum,  Arkasha  Yurlof  .  .  .  ?  " 

Voznitsin's  hand  trembled  as  he  pressed  hers. 
A  flash  of  memory  enlightened  him. 

"  Well,  I  never !  ...  It  can't  be  Lenotchka  ? 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Elena  .  .  .  Elena.  ..." 

"  Elena  Vladimirovna,"  she  put  in.  "  You've  for- 
gotten. .  .  .  But  you,  Kolya,  you're  just  the  same 
Kolya,  awkward,  shy,  touchy  Kolya.  How  strange 
for  us  to  meet  like  this  !  Do  sit  down.  ,  .  .  How 
glad  I  am.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  muttered  Voznitsin,  "  the  world  is  really 
so  small  that  everyone  must  of  necessity  meet  everyone 
else  " — a  by  no  means  original  thought.  "  But  tell 
me  all  that  has  happened.  How  is  Arkasha — and 
Alexandra  Millie vna — and  Oletchka  ?  " 

At  school  Voznitsin  had  only  been  intimate  with 
one  of  his  companions — Arkasha  Yurlof.  Every 
Sunday  he  had  leave  he  used  to  visit  the  family, 
and  at  Easter  and  Christmas-time  he  had  sometimes 
spent  his  holidays  with  them.  Before  the  time  came 
for  them  to  go  to  college,  Arkasha  had  fallen  ill  and 
had  been  ordered  away  into  the  country.  And  from 
that  time  Voznitsin  had  lost  sight  of  him.  Many 
years  ago  he  had  heard  by  chance  that  Lenotchka 
had  been  betrothed  to  an  officer  having  the  unusual 


EASTER  DAY  29 

surname  of  Jenishek,  who  had  done  a  thing  at  once 
foolish  and  unexpected — shot  himself. 

"  Arkasha  died  at  our  country  house  in  1890," 
answered  the  lady,  "  of  cancer.  And  mother  only 
lived  a  year  after.  Oletchka  took  her  medical  degree 
and  is  now  a  doctor  in  the  Serdobsky  district — before 
that  she  was  assistant  in  our  village  of  Jemakino. 
She  has  never  wished  to  marry,  though  she's  had  many 
good  offers.  I've  been  married  twenty  years,"  said 
she,  a  gleam  of  a  smile  on  her  compressed  lips.  "I'm 
quite  an  old  woman.  .  .  .  My  husband  has  an  estate 
in  the  country,  and  is  a  member  of  the  Provincial 
Council.  He  hasn't  received  many  honours,  but 
he's  an  honest  fellow  and  a  good  husband,  is  not  a 
drunkard,  neither  plays  cards  nor  runs  after  women, 
as  others  do.  .  .  .  God  be  praised  for  that !  .  .  ." 

"  Do  you  remember,  Elena  Vladimirovna,  how  I 
was  in  love  with  you  at  one  time  ?  "  Voznitsin  broke 
in  suddenly. 

She  smiled,  and  her  face  at  once  wore  a  look  of 
youth.  Voznitsin  saw  for  a  moment  the  gleam  of  the 
gold  stopping  in  her  teeth. 

"  Foohshness  !  .  .  .  Just  lad's  love.  .  .  .  But  you 
weren't  in  love  with  me  at  all ;  you  fell  in  love  with 
the  Sinyelnikofs,  all  four  of  them,  one  after  the  other. 
When  the  eldest  girl  married  you  placed  your  heart 
at  the  feet  of  the  next  sister,  and  so  on." 

"  Ah-ha  !  You  were  just  a  httle  jealous,  eh  ?  " 
remarked  Voznitsin  with  jocular  self-satisfaction* 

"  Oh,  not  at  all  !  .  .  .  You  were  Hke  Arkasha's 
brother.  .  .  .  Afterwards,  later,  when  you  were  about 
seventeen  perhaps,  I  was  a  Httle  vexed  to  think  you 
had  changed  towards  me.  .  .  .  You  know,  its  ridicu- 


30  A  SLAV  SOUL 

lous,  but  girls  have  hearts  hke  women.  We  may  not 
love  a  silent  adorer,  but  we  are  jealous  if  he  pays 
attentions  to  others.  .  .  .  But  that's  all  nonsense. 
Tell  me  more  about  yourself,  where  you  live,  and  what 
you  do." 

He  told  her  of  his  life— at  college,  in  the  army, 
about  the  war,  and  his  present  position.  No,  he  had 
never  married — at  first  he  had  feared  poverty  and  the 
responsibility  of  a  family,  and  now  it  was  too  late. 
He  had  had  flirtations,  of  course,  and  even  some 
serious  romances. 

The  conversation  ceased  after  a  while,  and  they 
sat  silent,  looking  at  one  another  with  tender,  tear- 
dimmed  eyes.  In  Voznitsin's  memory  the  long  past 
of  thirty  years  ago  came  swiftly  again  before  him. 
He  had  known  Lenotchka  when  he  was  eleven  years 
old.  She  had  been  a  naughty,  fidgetty  sort  of  girl, 
fond  of  telling  tales  and  liking  to  make  trouble.  Her 
face  was  covered  with  freckles,  she  had  long  arms 
and  legs,  pale  eyelashes,  and  disorderly  red  hair 
hanging  about  her  face  in  long  wisps.  Her  sister 
Oletchka  was  different ;  she  had  always  kept  apart, 
and  behaved  like  a  sensible  girl.  On  holidays  they 
all  went  together  to  dances  at  the  Assembly  Rooms, 
to  the  theatre,  the  circus,  to  the  skating  rink.  They 
got  up  Christmas  parties  and  children's  plays  together  ; 
they  coloured  eggs  at  Easter  and  dressed  up  at  Christ- 
mas. They  quarrelled  and  carried  on  together  like 
young  puppies. 

There  were  three  years  of  that.  Lenotchka  used 
to  go  away  every  summer  with  her  people  to  their 
country  house  at  Jemakino,  and  that  year,  when  she 
returned  to  Moscow  m  the  autumn,  Voznitsin  opened 


EASTER   DAY  31 

both  eyes  and  mouth  in  astonishment.  She  was 
changed  ;  you  couldn't  say  that  she  was  beautiful, 
but  there  was  something  in  her  face  more  wonderful 
than  actual  beauty,  a  rosy  radiant  blossoming  of  the 
feminine  being  in  her.  It  is  so  sometimes.  God 
knows  how  the  miracle  takes  place,  but  in  a  few  weeks, 
an  awkward,  undersized,  gawky  schoolgirl  will  develop 
suddenly  into  a  charming  maiden.  Lenotchka's  face 
still  kept  her  summer  sunburn,  under  which  her  ardent 
young  blood  flowed  gaily,  her  shoulders  had  filled  out, 
her  figure  rounded  itself,  and  her  soft  breasts  had  a 
firm  outline — all  her  body  had  become  willowy,  graceful, 
gracious. 

And  their  relations  towards  one  another  had  changed 
also.  They  became  different  after  one  Saturday 
evening  when  the  two  of  them,  frolicking  together 
before  church  service  in  a  dimly  lighted  room,  began 
to  wrestle  together  and  fight.  The  windows  were  wide 
open,  and  from  the  garden  came  the  clear  freshness  of 
autumn  and  a  slight  winey  odour  of  fallen  leaves,  and 
slowly  one  after  another  rang  out  the  sounds  of  the 
church  bells. 

They  struggled  together  ;  their  arms  were  round 
each  other  so  that  their  bodies  were  pressed  closely 
together  and  they  were  breathing  in  each  other's 
faces.  Suddenly  Lenotchka,  her  face  flaming  crimson 
even  in  the  darkening  twiUght,  her  eyes  dilated, 
began  to  whisper  angrily  and  confusedly  : 

"Let  me  go.  .  .  let  go.  .  .  .  I  don't  want  to  .  .  .," 
adding  with  a  malicious  gleam  in  her  wet  eyes  : 
"  Nasty,  horrid  boy." 

The  nasty,  horrid  boy  released  her  and  stood  there, 
awkwardly  stretching  out  his  trembling  arms.     His 


32  A  SLAV  SOUL 

legs  trembled  also,  and  his  forehead  was  wet  with  a 
sudden  perspiration.  He  had  just  now  felt  in  his 
arms  the  slender  responsive  waist  of  a  woman,  broaden- 
ing out  so  wonderfully  to  the  rounded  hips  ;  he  had 
felt  on  his  bosom  the  pliant  yielding  contact  of  her 
firm,  high,  girhsh  breasts  and  breathed  the  perfume  of 
her  body — that  pleasant  intoxicating  scent  of  opening 
poplar  buds  and  young  shoots  of  black-currant  bushes 
which  one  smells  on  a  clear  damp  evening  of  spring 
after  a  slight  shower,  when  the  sky  and  the  rain-pools 
flame  with  crimson  and  the  may  beetles  hum  in  the  air. 

Thus  began  for  Voznitsin  that  year  of  love  languish- 
ment,  of  bitter  passionate  dreams,  of  secret  and 
solitary  tears.  He  became  wild,  unsociable,  rude 
and  awkward  in  consequence  of  his  torturing  shyness  ; 
he  was  always  knocking  over  chairs  and  catching 
his  clothes  on  the    furniture,  upsetting  the  tea-table 

with  all  the  cups  and  saucers "  Our  KoHnka's 

always  getting  into  trouble,"  said  Lenotchka's  mother 
good-naturedly. 

Lenotchka  laughed  at  him.  But  he  knew  nothing 
of  it,  he  was  continually  behind  her  watching  her 
draw  or  write  or  embroider,  and  looking  at  the  curve 
of  her  neck  with  a  strange  mixture  of  happiness  and 
torture,  watching  her  white  skin  and  flowing  golden 
hair,  seeing  how  her  brown  school-blouse  moved  with 
her  breathing,  becoming  large  and  wrinkling  up  into 
little  pleats  when  she  drew  in  her  breath,  then  filling 
out  and  becoming  tight  and  elastic  and  round  again. 
The  sight  of  her  girlish  wrists  and  pretty  arms,  and 
the  scent  of  opening  poplar  buds  about  her,  remained 
with  the  boy  and  occupied  his  thoughts  in  class,  in 
church,  in  detention  rooms. 


EASTER   DAY  33 

In  all  his  notebooks  and  textbooks  Voznitsin  drew 
beautifully-twined  initials  E  and  Y,  and  cut  them 
with  a  knife  on  the  lid  of  his  desk  in  the  middle  of  a 
pierced  and  flaming  heart.  The  girl,  with  her  woman's 
instinct,  no  doubt  guessed  his  silent  adoration,  but 
in  her  eyes  he  was  too  everyday,  too  much  one  of  the 
family.  For  him  she  had  suddenly  been  transformed 
into  a  blooming,  dazzling,  fragrant  wonder,  but  in 
her  sight  he  was  still  the  same  impetuous  boy  as 
before,  with  a  deep  voice  and  hard  rough  hands, 
wearing  a  tight  uniform  and  wide  trousers.  She 
coquetted  innocently  with  her  schoolboy  friends  and 
with  the  young  son  of  the  priest  at  the  church,  and, 
like  a  kitten  sharpening  its  claws,  she  sometimes 
found  it  amusing  to  throw  on  Voznitsin  a  swift, 
burning,  cunning  glance.  But  if  he  in  a  momentary 
forgetfulness  squeezed  her  hand  too  tightly,  she 
would  threaten  him  with  a  rosy  finger  and  say 
meaningly : 

"  Take  care,  Kolya.  I  shall  tell  mother."  And 
Voznitsin  would  shiver  with  unfeigned  terror. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Kolya  had  to  spend  two 
years  in  the  sixth  form  ;  no  wonder  either  that  in 
the  summer  he  fell  in  love  with  the  eldest  of  the 
Sinyelnikof  girls,  with  whom  he  had  once  danced 
at  a  party.  .  .  .  But  at  Easter  his  full  heart  of  love 
knew  a  moment  of  heavenly  blessedness. 

On  Easter  Eve  he  went  with  the  Yurlofs  to  Boriso- 
glebsky  Church,  where  Alexandra  Millievna  had  an 
honoured  place,  with  her  own  kneeling-mat  and  soft 
folding  chair.  And  somehow  or  other  he  contrived  to 
come  home  alone  with  Lenotchka.  The  mother  and 
Oletchka  stayed  for  the  consecration  of  the  Easter 

S.S.  D 


34  A  SLAV   SOUL 

cakes,  and  Lenotchka,  Arkasha  and  Kolya  came 
out  of  church  together.  But  Arkasha  diplomatically 
vanished — he  disappeared  as  suddenly  as  if  the  earth 
had  opened  and  swallowed  him  up.  The  two  young 
people  found  themselves  alone. 

They  went  arm  in  arm  through  the  crowd,  their 
young  legs  moving  easily  and  swiftly.  Both  were 
overcome  by  the  beauty  of  the  night,  the  joyous 
hymns,  the  multitude  of  lights,  the  Easter  kisses, 
the  smiles  and  greetings  in  the  church.  Outside 
there  was  a  cheerful  crowd  of  people  ;  the  dark  and 
tender  sky  was  full  of  brightly  twinkling  stars  ;  the 
scent  of  moist  young  leaves  was  wafted  from  gardens, 
and  they,  too,  were  unexpectedly  so  near  to  one 
another  they  seemed  lost  together  in  the  crowd,  and 
they  were  out  at  an  unusually  late  hour. 

Pretending  to  himself  that  it  was  by  accident, 
Voznitsin  pressed  Lenotchka's  elbow  to  his  side,  and 
she  answered  with  a  barely  noticeable  movement  in 
return.  He  repeated  the  secret  caress,  and  she  again 
responded.  Then  in  the  darkness  he  felt  for  her 
finger-tips  and  gently  stroked  them,  and  her  hand 
made  no  objection,  was  not  snatched  away. 

And  so  they  came  to  the  gate  of  the  church  house. 
Arkasha  had  left  the  little  gate  open  for  them.  Narrow 
wooden  planks  placed  over  the  mud  led  up  to  the 
house  between  two  rows  of  spreading  old  lime  trees. 
WTien  the  gate  closed  after  them,  Voznitsin  caught 
Lenotchka's  hand  and  began  to  kiss  her  fingers,  so 
warm,  so  soft,  so  full  of  life. 

"  Lenotchka,  I  love  you ;  I  love  you.  .  .  ." 

He  put  his  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her  in  the 
darkness,    somewhere   just    below   her   ear.     His   hat 


EASTER   DAY  35 

fell  off  on  to  the  ground,  but  he  did  not  stop  to  pick 
it  up.  He  kissed  the  girl's  cool  cheek,  and  whispered 
as  in  a  dream  : 

"  Lenotchka,  I  love  you,  I  love  you.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,"  said  she  in  a  whisper,  and  hearing  the 
whisper  he  sought  her  lips.  "  No,  no,  let  me  go ; 
let  me  .  .  ." 

Dear  hps  of  hers,  half  childish,  simple,  innocent  Hps. 
When  he  kissed  her  she  made  no  opposition,  yet  she 
did  not  return  his  kisses  ;  she  breathed  in  a  touching 
manner,  quickly,  deeply,  submissively.  Down  his 
cheeks  there  flowed  cool  tears,  tears  of  rapture. 
And  when  he  drew  his  lips  away  from  hers  and  looked 
up  into  the  sky,  the  stars  shining  through  the  lime 
branches  seemed  to  dance  and  come  towards  one 
another,  to  meet  and  swim  together  in  silvery  clusters, 
seen  through  his  flowing  tears. 

"  Lenotchka,  I  love  you.  ..." 

"  Let  me  go.  .  .  ." 

"  Lenotchka  !  " 

But  suddenly  she  cried  out  angrily  :  "  Let  me  go, 
you  nasty,  horrid  boy.  You'll  see.  Til  tell  mother 
everything;  I'll  tell  her  all  about  it.     Indeed,  I  will." 

She  didn't  say  anything  to  her  mother,  but  after 
that  night  she  never  allowed  Voznitsin  to  be  alone 
with  her.     And  then  the  summer-time  came.  .  .   . 

^n  *f*  •(•  •!*  #p 

"  And  do  you  remember,  Elena  Vladimirovna,  how 
one  beautiful  Easter  night  two  young  people  kissed 
one  another  just  inside  the  church -house  gate  ?  " 
asked  Voznitsin. 

"No,  I  don't  remember  anything.  ,  .  .  Nasty,  horrid 


D   2 


36  A  SLAV   SOUL 

boy,"  said  the  lady,  smiling  gently.  "But  look,  here 
comes  my  daughter.  You  must  make  her  acquaintance." 

"  Lenotchka,  this  is  Nikolai  Ivanitch  Voznitsin, 
my  old,  old  friend.  I  knew  him  as  a  child.  And  this 
is  my  Lenotchka.  She's  just  exactly  the  same  age 
as  I  was  on  that  Easter  night.  .   .  ." 

"  Big  Lenotchka  and  little  Lenotchka,"  said  Voz- 
nitsin. 

"  No,  old  Lenotchka  and  young  Lenotchka,"  she 
answered,  simply  and  quietly. 

Lenotchka  was  very  much  like  her  mother,  but 
taller  and  more  beautiful  than  she  had  been  in  her 
youth.  Her  hair  was  not  red,  but  the  colour  of  a 
hazel  nut  with  a  brilliant  lustre  ;  her  dark  eyebrows 
were  finely  and  clearly  outlined  ;  her  mouth  full  and 
sensitive,  fresh  and  beautiful. 

The  young  girl  was  interested  in  the  floating  Hght- 
ships,  and  Voznitsin  explained  their  construction  and 
use.  Then  they  talked  about  stationary  lighthouses, 
the  depth  of  the  Black  Sea,  about  divers,  about 
collisions  of  steamers,  an.i  so  on.  Voznitsin  could 
talk  well,  and  the  young  girl  listened  to  him  with 
lightly  parted  lips,  never  taking  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

And  he  .  .  .  the  longer  he  looked  at  her  the  more 
his  heart  was  overcome  by  a  sweet  and  tender  melan- 
choly— sympath}^  for  himself,  pleasure  in  her,  in  this 
new  Lenotchka,  and  a  quiet  thankfulness  to  the  elder 
one.  It  was  this  very  feeling  for  which  he  had  thirsted 
in  Moscow,  but  clearer,  brighter,  purified  from  all 
self-love. 

When  the  young  girl  went  off  to  look  at  the  Kherson 
monastery  he  took  the  elder  Lenotchka's  hand  and 
kissed  it  gently. 


EASTER   DAY  37 

"  Life  is  wise,  and  we  must  submit  to  her  laws," 
he  said  thoughtfully.  "  But  life  is  beautiful  too.  It 
is  an  eternal  rising  from  the  dead.  You  and  I  will 
pass  away  and  vanish  out  of  sight,  but  from  our 
bodies,  from  our  thoughts  and  actions,  from  our  minds, 
our  inspiration  and  our  talents,  there  will  arise,  as 
from  our  ashes,  a  new  Lenotchka  and  a  new  Kolya 
Voznitsin.  All  is  connected,  all  linked  together. 
I  shall  depart  and  yet  I  shall  also  remain.  But  one 
must  love  Life  and  follow  her  guidance.  We  are  all 
ahve  together — the  hving  and  the  dead." 

He  bent  down  once  more  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  she 
kissed  him  tenderly  on  his  white-haired  brow.  They 
looked  at  one  another,  and  their  eyes  were  wet  with 
tears  ;   they  smiled  gently,  sadly,  tenderly. 


IV 
THE    IDIOT 

We  were  seated  in  a  little  park,  driven  there  by 
the  unbearable  heat  of  the  noonday  sun.  It  was 
much  cooler  there  than  in  the  streets,  where  the 
paving  stones,  steeped  in  the  rays  of  the  July  sun, 
burnt  the  soles  of  one's  feet,  and  the  walls  of  the 
buildings  seemed  red-hot.  The  fine  scorching  dust  of 
the  roadway  did  not  penetrate  through  the  close 
border  of  leafy  old  limes  and  spreading  chestnuts, 
the  latter  with  their  long  upright  pyramids  of  rosy 
flowers  looking  like  gigantic  imperial  candelabra. 
The  park  was  full  of  frolicsome  well-dressed  children, 
the  older  ones  playing  with  hoops  and  skipping-ropes, 
chasing  one  another  or  going  together  in  pairs,  their 
arms  entwined  as  they  walked  about  with  an  air  of 
importance,  stepping  quickly  upon  the  sidewalk. 
The  little  ones  played  at  choosing  colours,  "  My  lady 
sent  me  a  hundred  roubles,"  and  "  King  of  the  castle." 
And  then  a  group  of  all  the  smallest  ones  gathered 
together  on  a  large  heap  of  warm  yellow  sand,  moulding 
it  into  buckwheat  cakes  and  Easter  loaves.  The 
nurses  stood  round  in  groups,  gossiping  about  their 
masters  and  mistresses  ;  the  governesses  sat  stiffly 
upright  on  the  benches,  deep  in  their  reading  or  their 
needlework. 

Suddenly  the  children  stopped  their  playing  and 


THE   IDIOT  39 

began  to  gaze  intently  in  the  direction  of  the  entrance 
gate.  We  also  turned  to  look.  A  tall  bearded 
peasant  was  wheeling  in  before  him  a  bath-chair  in 
which  sat  a  pitiful  helpless  being,  a  boy  of  about 
eighteen  or  twenty  years,  with  a  flabby  pale  face, 
thick,  wet,  crimson  hanging  lips,  and  the  appearance 
of  an  idiot.  The  bearded  peasant  pushed  the  chair 
past  us  and  disappeared  down  a  side  path.  I  noticed 
as  he  passed  that  the  enormous  sharp-pointed  head 
of  the  boy  moved  from  side  to  side,  and  that  at  each 
movement  of  the  chair  it  fell  towards  his  shoulder 
or  dropped  helplessly  in  front  of  him. 

"  Poor  man  !  "  exclaimed  my  companion  in  a 
gentle  voice. 

I  heard  such  deep  and  sincere  sympathy  in  his 
words  that  I  involuntarily  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment. I  had  known  Zimina  for  a  long  time — he 
was  a  strong,  good-natured,  jolly,  virile  type  of  man 
serving  in  one  of  the  regiments  quartered  in  our  town. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  shouldn't  have  expected  from 
him  such  sincere  compassion  towards  a  stranger's 
misfortune. 

"  Poor,  of  course  he  is,  but  I  shouldn't  call  him  a 
man,"  said  I,  wishing  to  get  into  conversation  with 
Zimina. 

"  Why  wouldn't  you  ?  "  asked  he  in  his  turn. 

"  Well,  it's  difficult  to  say.  But  surely  it's  clear 
to  everybody.  .  .  .  An  idiot  has  none  of  the  higher 
impulses  and  virtues  which  distinguish  man  from 
the  animal  ...  no  reason  or  speech  or  will.  .  .  . 
A  dog  or  a  cat  possesses  these  qualities  in  a  much 
higher  degree.  ..." 

But  Zimina  interrupted  me. 


40  A  SLAV   SOUL 

"  Pardon  me,  please,"  said  he.  "I  am  deeply 
convinced,  on  the  contrary,  that  idiots  are  not  lacking 
in  human  instincts.  These  instincts  are  only  clouded 
over  .  .  .  they  exist  deep  below  their  animal  feel- 
ings. .  .  .  You  see,  I  once  had  an  experience  which 
gives  me,  I  think,  the  right  to  say  this.  The  remem- 
brance of  it  will  never  leave  me,  and  every  time  I  see 
such  an  afflicted  person  I  feel  touched  almost  to 
tears.  ...  If  you'll  allow  me,  Fll  tell  you  why  the 
sight  of  an  idiot  moves  me  to  such  compassion." 

I  hastened  to  beg  him  to  tell  his  story,  and  he  began. 

"  In  the  year  i8 — ,  in  the  early  autumn,  I  went  to 
Petersburg  to  sit  for  an  examination  at  the  Academy 
of  the  General  Staff.  I  stopped  in  the  first  hotel  I 
came  to,  at  the  corner  of  Nevsky  Prospect  and  the 
Fontanka.  From  my  windows  I  could  see  the  bronze 
horses  on  the  parapet  of  the  Anitchka  Bridge — they 
were  always  wet  and  gleaming  as  if  they  had  been 
covered  over  with  new  oilcloth.  I  often  drew  them 
on  the  marble  window-seats  of  my  room. 

"  Petersburg  struck  me  as  an  unpleasant  place, 
it  seemed  to  be  always  enveloped  in  a  melancholy 
grey  veil  of  drizzling  rain.  But  when  I  went  into  the 
Academy  for  the  first  time  I  was  overwhelmed  and 
overawed  by  its  grandeur.  I  remember  now  its 
immense  broad  staircase  with  marble  balustrades, 
its  high-roofed  amphilades,  its  severely  proportioned 
lecture-hall,  and  its  waxed  parquet  floor,  gleaming 
like  a  mirror,  upon  which  my  provincial  feet  stepped 
warily.  There  were  four  hundred  officers  there  that 
day.  Against  the  modest  background  of  green 
Armenian  uniforms  there  flashed  the  clattering  swords 
of  the  Cuirassiers,  the  scarlet  breasts  of  the  Lancers, 


THE  IDIOT  41 

the  white  jackets  of  the  Cavalry  Guards,  waving 
plumes,  the  gold  of  eagles  on  helmets,  the  various 
colours  of  facings,  the  silver  of  swords.  These  officers 
were  all  my  rivals,  and  as  I  watched  them  in  pride 
and  agitation  I  pulled  at  the  place  where  I  supposed 
my  moustache  would  grow  by  and  by.  When  a 
busy  colonel  of  the  General  Staff,  with  his  portfolio 
under  his  arm,  hurried  past  us,  we  shy  foot  soldiers 
stepped  on  one  side  with  reverent  awe. 

"  The  examination  was  to  last  over  a  month.  I 
knew  no  one  in  all  Petersburg,  and  in  the  evening, 
returning  to  my  lodging,  I  experienced  the  dulness 
and  wearisomeness  of  solitude.  It  was  no  good 
talking  to  any  of  my  companions  ;  they  were  all 
immersed  in  sines  and  tangents,  in  the  qualities 
determining  good  positions  for  a  battle  ground,  in 
calculations  about  the  declination  of  a  projectile. 
Suddenly  I  remembered  that  my  father  had  advised 
me  to  seek  out  in  Petersburg  our  distant  relative, 
Alexandra  Ivanovna  Gratcheva,  and  go  and  visit  her. 
I  got  a  directory,  found  her  address,  and  set  out  for  a 
place  somewhere  on  the  Gorokhavaya.  After  some 
little  difficulty  I  found  Alexandra  Ivanovna's  room  ; 
she  was  living  in  her  sister's  house. 

"  I  opened  the  door  and  stood  there,  hardly  seeing 
anything  at  first.  A  stout  woman  was  standing  with 
her  back  to  me,  near  the  single  small  window  of  dull 
green  glass.  She  was  bending  over  a  smoky  paraffin 
stove.  The  room  was  filled  with  the  odour  of  paraffin 
and  burning  fat.  The  woman  turned  round  and  saw 
me,  and  from  a  corner  a  barefooted  boy,  wearing  a 
loose-belted  blouse,  jumped  up  and  ran  quickly  towards 
me.     I  looked  closely  at  him,  and  saw  at  once  that  he 


42  A  SLAV  SOUL 

was  an  idiot,  and,  though  I  did  not  recoil  before  him, 
in  reaHty  there  was  a  feehng  in  my  heart  Hke  that  of 
fear.  The  idiot  looked  unintelligently  at  me,  uttering 
strange  sounds,  something  like  oorli,  oorli,  oorli.  .  .  . 

Don't  be  afraid,  he  won't  touch  it,'  said  the 
woman  to  the  idiot,  coming  forward.  And  then  to 
me — '  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  '  she  added. 

"  I  gave  my  name  and  reminded  her  of  my  father. 
She  was  glad  to  see  me,  her  face  brightened  up,  she 
exclaimed  in  surprise  and  began  to  apologise  for  not 
having  the  room  in  order.  The  idiot  boy  came  closer 
to  me,  and  cried  out  more  loudly,  oorli,  oorli.  .  .  . 

This  is  my  boy,  he's  been  like  that  from  birth,' 
said  Alexandra  Ivanovna  with  a  sad  smile.  '  What 
of  it.  .  .  .  It's  the  will  of  God.     His  name  is  Stepan.' 

"  Hearing  his  name  the  idiot  cried  out  in  a  shrill, 
bird-like  voice  : 

"'Papan!' 

"  Alexandra  Ivanovna  patted  him  caressingly  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  '  Yes,  yes,  Stepan,  Stepan.  .  .  .  You  see,  he 
guessed  we  were  speaking  about  him  and  so  he  intro- 
duced himself.' 

"  'Papan!'  cried  the  idiot  again,  turning  his  eyes 
first  on  his  mother  and  then  on  me. 

"  In  order  to  show  some  interest  in  the  boy  I  said 
to  him,  '  How  do  you  do,  Stepan,'  and  took  him  by 
the  hand.  It  was  cold,  puffy,  lifeless.  I  felt  a  certain 
aversion,  and  only  out  of  politeness  went  on : 

"  '  I  suppose  he's  about  sixteen.' 

"  '  Oh,  no,'  answered  the  mother.  '  Everybody 
thinks  he's  about  sixteen,  but  he's  over  twenty-nine. 
.  ,  ,  His  beard  and  moustache  have  never  grown.' 


THE   IDIOT  43 

"  We  talked  together.  Alexandra  Ivanovna  was  a 
quiet,  timid  woman,  weighed  down  by  need  and 
misfortune.  Her  sharp  struggle  against  poverty  had 
entirely  killed  all  boldness  of  thought  in  her  and  all 
interest  in  anything  outside  the  narrow  bounds  of 
this  struggle.  She  complained  to  me  of  the  high 
price  of  meat,  and  about  the  impudence  of  the  cab 
drivers  ;  told  me  of  some  people  who  had  won  money 
in  a  lottery,  and  envied  the  happiness  of  rich  people. 
All  the  time  of  our  conversation  Stepan  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  me.  He  was  apparently  struck  by  and 
interested  in  my  military  overcoat.  Three  times  he 
put  out  his  hand  stealthily  to  touch  the  shining  buttons, 
but  drew  it  back  each  time  as  if  he  were  afraid. 

"  '  Is  it  possible  your  Stepan  cannot  say  even  one 
word  ?  '  I  asked. 

"  Alexandra  Ivanovna  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  '  No,  he  can't  speak.  He  has  a  few  words  of  his 
own,  but  they're  not  really  words — just  mutterings. 
For  example,  he  calls  himself  Papan  ;  when  he  wants 
something  to  eat  he  says  yyinya  ;  he  calls  money  ieki. 
Stepan,'  she  continued,  turning  to  her  son,  '  where  is 
your  icki  ;   show  us  your  teki.' 

"  Stepan  jumped  up  quickly  from  his  chair,  ran 
into  a  dark  corner,  and  crouched  down  on  his  heels. 
I  heard  the  jingling  of  some  copper  coins  and  the  boy's 
voice  saying  oorli,  oorli,  but  this  time  in  a  growling, 
threatening  tone. 

"'He's  afraid,'  explained  the  mother;  'though  he 
doesn't  understand  what  money  is,  he  won't  let 
anyone  touch  it  ...  he  won't  even  let  me.  .  .  .  Well, 
well,  we  won't  touch  your  money,  we  won't  touch  it,' 
she  went  to  her  son  and  soothed  him,  .  .  . 


44  A  SLAV    SOUL 

"  I  began  to  visit  them  frequently.  Stepan 
interested  me,  and  an  idea  came  to  me  to  try  and 
cure  him  according  to  the  system  of  a  certain  Swiss 
doctor,  who  tried  to  cure  his  feeble-minded  patients 
by  the  slow  road  of  logical  development.  '  He  has 
a  few  weak  impressions  of  the  outer  world  and  of 
the  connection  between  phenomena,'  I  thought. 
'  Can  one  not  combine  two  or  three  of  these  ideas, 
and  so  give  a  fourth,  a  fifth,  and  so  on  ?  Is  it  not 
possible  by  persistent  exercise  to  strengthen  and 
broaden  this  poor  mind  a  little  ?  ' 

"  I  brought  him  a  doll  dressed  as  a  coachman. 
He  was  much  pleased  with  it,  and  laughed  and 
exclaimed,  showing  the  doll  and  saying  Papan ! 
The  doll,  however,  seemed  to  awaken  some  doubt 
in  his  mind,  and  that  same  evening  Stepan,  who  was 
usually  well-disposed  to  all  that  was  small  and  weak, 
tried  to  break  the  doll's  head  on  the  floor.  Then  I 
brought  him  pictures,  tried  to  interest  him  in  boxes 
of  bricks,  and  talked  to  him,  naming  the  different 
objects  and  pointing  them  out  to  him.  But  either 
the  Swiss  doctor's  system  was  not  a  good  one  or  I 
didn't  know  how  to  put  it  into  practice — Stepan's 
development  seemed  to  make  no  progress  at  all. 

"  He  was  very  fond  of  me  in  those  days.  When 
I  came  to  visit  them  he  ran  to  meet  me,  uttering 
rapturous  cries.  He  never  took  his  eyes  off  me,  and 
when  I  ceased  to  pay  him  special  attention  he  came 
up  and  licked  my  hands,  my  shoes,  my  uniform, 
just  like  a  dog.  When  I  went  away  he  stood  at  the 
window  for  a  long  time,  and  cried  so  pitifully  that 
the  other  lodgers  in  the  house  complained  of  him  to 
the  landlady. 


THE   IDIOT  45 

"  But  my  personal  affairs  were  in  a  bad  way.  I 
failed  at  the  examination,  failed  unusually  badly 
in  the  last  but  one  examination  in  fortifications. 
Nothing  remained  but  to  collect  my  belongings  and 
go  back  to  my  regiment.  I  don't  think  that  in  all 
my  life  I  shall  ever  forget  that  dreadful  moment 
when,  coming  out  of  the  lecture-hall,  I  walked  across 
the  great  vestibule  of  the  Academy.  Good  Lord  ! 
I  felt  so  small,  so  pitiful  and  so  humbled,  walking 
down  those  broad  steps  covered  with  grey  felt  carpet, 
having  a  crimson  stripe  at  the  side  and  a  white  hnen 
tread  down  the  middle. 

"  It  was  necessary  to  get  away  as  quickly  as  possible. 
I  was  urged  to  this  by  financial  considerations — in 
my  purse  I  had  only  ten  copecks  and  one  ticket  for  a 
dinner  at  a  student's  restaurant. 

"  I  thought  to  myself :  '  I  must  get  my  "  dismissal  " 
quickly  and  set  out  at  once.  Oh,  the  irony  of  that 
word  "dismissal."'  But  it  seemed  the  most  difficult 
thing  in  the  world.  From  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Academy  I  was  sent  to  the  General  Staff,  thence  to 
the  Commandant's  office,  then  to  the  local  intendant, 
then  back  to  the  Academy,  and  at  last  to  the  Treasury. 
All  these  places  were  open  only  at  special  times  : 
some  from  nine  to  twelve,  some  from  three  to  five. 
I  was  late  at  all  of  them,  and  my  position  began  to 
appear  critical. 

"  When  I  used  my  dinner  ticket  I  had  thoughtlessly 
squandered  my  ten  copecks  also.  Next  day,  when  I  felt 
the  pangs  of  hunger,  I  resolved  to  sell  my  text-books. 
Thick  'Baron  Bego,'  adapted  by  Bremiker,  bound, 
I  sold  for  twenty-five  copecks  ;  '  Professor  Lobko ' 
for  twenty ;  solid  '  General  Durop  '  no  one  would  buy. 


46  A   SLAV  SOUL 

"  For  two  days  I  was  half  starved.  On  the  third 
day  there  only  remained  to  me  three  copecks.  I 
screwed  up  my  courage  and  went  to  ask  a  loan  from 
some  of  my  companions,  but  they  all  excused  them- 
selves by  saying  there  was  a  Torricellian  vacuum  in 
their  pockets,  and  only  one  acknowledged  having  a 
few  roubles,  but  he  never  lent  money.  As  he  explained, 
with  a  gentle  smile,  '  "  Loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and 
friend,"  as  Shakspeare  says  in  one  of  his  immortal 
works.' 

"  Three  copecks  !  I  indulged  in  tragic  reflections. 
Should  I  spend  them  all  at  once  on  a  box  of  ten 
cigarettes,  or  should  I  wait  until  my  hunger  became 
unbearable,  and  then  buy  bread  ? 

"  How  wise  I  was  to  decide  on  the  latter  !  Towards 
evening  I  was  as  hungry  as  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his 
island,  and  I  went  out  on  to  the  Nevsky  Prospect. 
Ten  times  I  passed  and  repassed  Philipof's  the  baker's, 
devouring  with  my  eyes  the  immense  loaves  of  bread 
in  the  windows.  Some  had  yellow  crust,  some  red, 
and  some  were  strewn  with  poppy-seed.  At  last  I 
resolved  to  go  in.  Some  schoolboys  stood  there 
eating  hot  pies,  holding  them  in  scraps  of  grey  greasy 
paper.  I  felt  a  hatred  against  them  for  their  good 
fortune. 

"  '  What  would  you  like  ?  '  asked  the  shopman. 

"  I  put  on  an  indifferent  air,  and  answered  super- 
ciliously : 

"  '  Cut  me  off  a  pound  of  black  bread.  .  .  .' 

"  I  was  far  from  being  at  my  fease  while  the  man 
skilfully  cut  the  bread  with  his  broad  knife.  And 
suddenly  I  thought  to  myself  :  '  Suppose  it's  more 
than  two  and  a  half   copecks  a  pound,  what  shall  I 


THE   IDIOT  47 

do  if  the  man  cuts  it  overweight  ?  I  know  it's  possible 
to  owe  five  or  ten  roubles  in  a  restaurant,  and  say  to 
the  waiter,  "  Put  it  down  to  my  account,  please," 
but  what  can  one  do  if  one  hasn't  enough  by  one 
copeck  ?  ' 

"  Hurrah  !  The  bread  cost  exactly  three  copecks. 
I  shifted  about  from  one  foot  to  another  while  it  was 
being  wrapped  up  in  paper.  As  soon  as  I  got  out  of 
the  shop  and  felt  in  my  pocket  the  soft  warmth  of  the 
bread,  I  wanted  to  cry  out  for  joy  and  begin  to  munch 
it,  as  children  do  those  crusts  which  they  steal  from 
the  table  after  a  long  day's  romping,  to  eat  as  they 
lie  in  their  beds.  And  I  couldn't  restrain  myself. 
Even  in  the  street  I  thrust  into  my  mouth  two  large 
tasty  morsels. 

"  Yes.  I  tell  you  all  this  in  almost  a  cheerful  tone. 
But  I  was  far  from  cheerful  then.  Add  to  my  torture 
of  hunger  the  stinging  shame  of  failure  ;  the  near 
prospect  of  being  the  laughing-stock  of  my  regimental 
companions  ;  the  charming  amiability  of  the  official 
on  whom  depended  my  cursed  '  dismissal.'  .  .  . 
I  tell  you  frankly,  in  those  days  I  was  face  to  face  all 
the  time  with  the  thought  of  suicide. 

"  Next  day  my  hunger  again  seemed  unbearable. 
I  went  along  to  Alexandra  Ivanovna.  As  soon  as 
Stepan  saw  me  he  went  into  an  ecstasy.  He  cried 
out,  jumped  about  me,  and  licked  my  coat-sleeve. 
When  at  length  I  sat  down  he  placed  himself  near  me 
on  the  floor  and  pressed  up  against  my  legs.  Alexandra 
Ivanovna  was  obliged  to  send  him  away  by  force. 

"  It  was  very  unpleasant  to  have  to  ask  a  loan 
from  this  poor  woman,  who  herself  found  life  so 
difficult,  but  I  resolved  I  must  do  so. 


48  A  SLAV  SOUL 

Alexandra  Ivanovna,'  said  L  '  I've  nothing  to 
eat.     Lend  me  what  money  you  can,  please.' 

"  She  wrung  her  hands. 

My  dear  boy,  I  haven't  a  copeck.  Yesterday 
I  pawned  my  brooch.  .  .  .  To-day  I  was  able  to  buy 
something  in  the  market,  but  to-morrow  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do.' 

Can't  you  borrow  a  little  from  your  sister  ?  '  I 
suggested. 

"  Alexandra  Ivanovna  looked  round  with  a 
frightened  air,  and  whispered,  almost  in  terror : 

What  aie  you  saying  ?  What !  Don't  you  know 
I  live  here  on  her  charity  ?  No,  we'd  better  think  of 
some  other  way  of  getting  it.' 

"  But  the  more  we  thought  the  more  difficult  it 
appeared.  After  a  while  we  became  silent.  Evening 
came  on,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  a  heavy  weari- 
some gloom.  Despair  and  hate  and  hunger  tortured 
me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  abandoned  on  the  edge  of  the 
world,  alone  and  humiliated. 

"  Suddenly  something  touched  my  side.  I  turned. 
It  was  Stepan.  He  held  out  to  me  on  his  palm  a 
little  pile  of  copper  money,  and  said :  '  Teki,  teki, 
teki.  .  .  .' 

"  I  did  not  understand.  Then  he  threw  his  money 
on  to  my  knee,  called  out  once  more — teki — and  ran 
off  into  his  corner. 

"  Well,  why  should  I  hide  it  ?  I  wept  like  a  child ; 
sobbed  out,  long  and  loudly.  Alexandra  Ivanovna 
wept  also,  out  of  pity  and  tenderness,  and  from  his 
far  corner  Stepan  uttered  his  pitiful,  unmeaning  cry  of 
oorli,  oorli,  oorli. 

"  When    I    became    quieter    I    felt    better.     The 


THE   IDIOT  49 

unexpected  sympathy  of  the  idiot  boy  had  suddenly 
warmed  and  soothed  my  heart,  and  shown  me  that  it 
is  possible  to  live,  and  that  one  ought  to  live,  as  long 
as  there  is  love  and  compassion  in  the  world." 

"  That  is  why,"  concluded  Zimina,  finishing  his 
story,  "  that  is  why  I  pity  all  these  unfortunates, 
and  why  I  can't  deny  that  they  are  human  beings." 
Yes,  and  by  the  way,  his  sympathy  brought  me 
happiness.  Now  I'm  very  glad  I  didn't  become  a 
"  moment  " — that's  our  nickname  for  the  officers  of 
the  General  Staff.  Since  that  time  I  have  had  a  full 
and  broad  life,  and  promises  to  be  as  full  in  the 
future.     I'm  superstitious  about  it. 


8.S. 


V 
THE  PICTURE 


One  evening,  at  the  house  of  a  well-known  literary 
man,  after  supper,  there  arose  among  the  company 
an  unusually  heated  discussion  as  to  whether  there 
could  exist  in  this  time  of  ours,  so  barren  of  exalted 
feelings,  a  lasting  and  unalterable  friendship.  Every- 
one said  that  such  friendship  did  not  exist  ;  that  there 
were  many  trials  which  the  friendship  of  our  days 
was  quite  unable  to  support.  It  was  in  the  statement 
of  the  causes  through  which  friendship  was  broken, 
that  the  company  disagreed.  One  said  that  money 
stood  in  the  way  of  friendship  ;  another  that  woman 
stood  in  the  way  ;  a  third,  similarity  of  character  ; 
a  fourth,  the  cares  of  family  life,  and  so  on. 

When  the  talking  and  shouting  had  died  down, 
and  the  people  were  tired,  though  nothing  had  been 
explained  and  no  conclusion  arrived  at,  one  respected 
guest,  who  till  that  moment  had  not  taken  part  in  the 
discussion,  suddenly  broke  silence  and  took  up  the 
conversation.' 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,  all  that  you  have  said  is  both 
weighty  and  remarkable.  Still  I  could  give  you  an 
example  from  life  where  friendship  triumphed  over 
all  the  obstacles  which  you  have  mentioned,  and 
remained  inviolate." 


THE  PICTURE  51 

"  And  do  you  mean,"  asked  the  host,  "  that  this 
friendship  endured  to  the  grave  ?  " 

"  No,  not  to  the  grave.  But  it  was  broken  off  for 
a  special  reason." 

"  What  sort  of  a  reason  ?  "  asked  the  host. 

"  A  very  simple  reason,  and  at  the  same  time  an 
astonishing  one.  The  friendship  was  broken  by 
St.  Barbara." 

None  of  the  company  could  understand  how,  in 
our  commercial  days,  St.  Barbara  could  sever  a 
friendship,  and  they  all  begged  Afanasy  Silitch — for 
such  was  the  respected  man's  name — to  explain  his 
enigmatical  words. 

Afanasy  Silitch  smiled  as  he  answered  : 

"  There's  nothing  enigmatical  about  the  matter. 
It's  a  simple  and  sad  story,  the  story  of  the  suffering 
of  a  sick  heart.  And  if  you  would  really  like  to  hear, 
I'll  tell  you  about  it  at  once  with  pleasure." 

Everyone  prepared  to  listen,  and  Afanasy  Silitch 
began  his  tale. 

II 

In  the  beginning  of  the  present  century  there  was 
a  family  of  princes,  Belokon  Belonogof,  famous  on 
account  of  their  illustrious  birth,  their  riches  and  their 
pride.  But  fate  destined  this  family  to  die  out,  so 
that  now  there  is  hardly  any  remembrance  of  them. 
The  last  of  these  princes,  and  he  was  not  of  the  direct 
line,  finished  his  worldly  career  quite  lately  in  the 
Arzhansky,  a  well-known  night  house  and  gambling 
den  in  Moscow,  among  a  set  of  drunkards,  wastrels 
and  thieves.  But  my  story  is  not  about  him,  but 
about  Prince  Audrey  Lvovitch,  with  whom  the  direct 
line  ended. 

K  2 


52  A   SLAV   SOUL 

During  his  father's  hfetime — this  was  before  the 
emancipation  of  the  serfs — Prince  Andrey  had  a 
commission  in  the  Guards,  and  was  looked  upon  as 
one  of  the  most  brilhant  officers.  He  had  plenty  of 
money,  was  handsome,  and  a  favourite  with  the  ladies, 
a  good  dancer,  a  duellist — and  what  not  besides  ? 
But  when  his  father  died.  Prince  Andrey  threw  up 
his  commission  in  spite  of  all  entreaties  from  his 
comrades  to  remain.  "  No,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  be 
lost  among  you,  and  I'm  curious  to  know  all  that 
fate  has  in  store  for  me." 

He  was  a  strange  man,  of  peculiar  and,  one  might 
say,  fantastic  habits.  He  flattered  himself  that  his 
every  dream  could  at  once  be  realised.  As  soon  as 
he  had  buried  his  father  he  took  himself  off  abroad. 
Astonishing  to  think  of  the  places  he  went  to  !  Money 
was  sent  to  him  through  every  agency  and  banking 
house,  now  in  Paris,  now  in  Calcutta,  then  in  New 
York,  then  Algiers.  I  know  all  this  on  unimpeachable 
authority,  I  must  tell  you,  because  my  father  was  the 
chief  steward  of  his  estate  of  two  hundred  thousand 
desiatines.^ 

After  four  years  the  prince  returned,  thin,  his  face 
overgrown  with  a  beard  and  brown  from  sunburn — 
it  was  difficult  to  recognise  him.  As  soon  as  he 
arrived  he  established  himself  on  his  estate  at  Pneest- 
cheva.  He  went  about  in  his  dressing-gown.  He 
found  it  very  dull  on  the  whole. 

I  was  always  welcome  in  his  house  at  that  time, 
for  the  prince  liked  my  cheerful  disposition,  and  as  I 
had  received  some  sort  of  education  I  could  be 
somewhat  of  a  companion  to  him.     And  then  again, 

^  A  desiatin  is  2*7  acres. 


THE   PICTURE  53 

I  was  a  free  person,  for  my  father  had  been  ransomed 
in  the  old  prince's  time. 

The  prince  always  greeted  me  affectionately,  and 
made  me  sit  down  with  him.  He  even  treated  me 
to  cigars.  I  soon  got  used  to  sitting  down  in  his 
presence,  but  I  could  never  accustom  myself  to  smoking 
the  cigars — they  always  gave  me  a  kind  of  sea-sickness. 

I  was  very  curious  to  see  all  the  things  which  the 
prince  had  brought  back  with  him  from  his  travels. 
Skins  of  lions  and  tigers,  curved  swords,  idols,  stuffed 
animals  of  all  kinds,  precious  stones  and  rich  stuffs. 
The  prince  used  to  lie  on  his  enormous  divan  and 
smoke,  and  though  he  laughed  at  my  curiosity  he 
would  explain  everything  I  asked  about.  Then,  if  he 
could  get  himself  into  the  mood,  he  would  begin  to 
talk  of  his  adventures  until,  as  you  may  well  believe, 
cold  shivers  ran  down  my  back.  He  would  talk  and 
talk,  and  then  all  at  once  would  frown  and  become 
silent.  I  would  be  silent  also.  And  then  he  would 
say,  all  of  a  sudden  : 

"  It's  dull  for  me,  Afanasy.  See,  Fve  been  ah 
round  the  world  and  seen  everything  ;  Eve  caught 
wild  horses  in  Mexico  and  hunted  tigers  in  India  ; 
I've  journeyed  on  the  sea  and  been  in  danger  of 
drowning  ;  I've  crossed  deserts  and  been  buried  in 
sand — what  more  is  there  for  me  ?  Nothing,  I  say ; 
there's  nothing  new  under  the  sun." 

I  said  to  him  once,  quite  simply,  "  You  might  get 
married,  prince." 

But  he  only  laughed. 

"  I  might  marry  if  I  could  find  the  woman  whom 
I  could  love  and  honour.  I've  seen  all  nations  and 
all  classes  of  women,   and  since   I'm  not  ugly,   not 


54  A  SLAV   SOUL 

stupid,  and  I'm  a  rich  man,  they  have  all  shown  me 
special  attention,  but  I've  never  seen  the  sort  of 
woman  that  I  need.  All  of  them  were  either  mercenary 
or  depraved,  or  stupid  or  just  a  little  too  much  given 
to  good  works.  But  the  fact  remains,  that  I  feel 
bored  with  life.  It  would  be  another  matter  if  I 
had  any  sort  of  talent  or  gilt." 

And  to  this  I  generally  used  to  answer  :  "  But  what 
more  talent  do  you  want,  prince  ?  Thank  God  for 
your  good  looks,  for  your  land — which,  as  you  say 
yourself,  is  more  than  belongs  to  any  German  prince — 
and  for  the  powers  with  which  God  has  blessed  you. 
I  shouldn't  ask  for  any  other  talent." 

The  prince  laughed  at  this,  and  said  :  "  You're  a 
stupid,  Afanasy,  and  much  too  young  as  yet.  Live 
a  little  longer,  and  if  you  don't  become  an  utter 
scoundrel,  you'll  remember  these  words  of  mine." 

Ill 

Prince  Audrey  had,  however,  a  gift  of  his  own, 
in  my  opinion,  a  very  great  gift,  for  painting,  which 
had  been  evident  even  in  his  childhood.  During  his 
stay  abroad  he  had  lived  for  nearly  a  year  in  Rome, 
and  had  there  learnt  to  paint  pictures.  He  had  even 
thought  at  one  time,  he  told  me,  that  he  might  become 
a  real  artist,  but  for  some  reason  he  had  given  up  the 
idea,  or  he  had  become  idle.  Now  he  was  living  on 
his  estate  at  Pneestcheva,  he  called  to  mind  his  former 
occupation  and  took  to  painting  pictures  again. 
He  painted  the  river,  the  mill,  an  ikon  of  St.  Nicholas 
for  the  church — and  painted  them  very  well. 

Besides  this  occupation  the  prince  had  one  other 
diversion — bear  hunting.     In  our  neighbourhood  there 


THE   PICTURE  55 

were  a  fearful  number  of  these  animals.  He  always 
went  as  a  mouzhik,  with  hunting  pole  and  knife,  and 
only  took  with  him  the  village  hunter  Nikita  Branny. 
They  called  him  Branny  because  on  one  occasion  a 
bear  had  torn  a  portion  of  his  scalp  from  his  skull, 
and  his  head  had  remained  ragged  ever  since. ^ 

With  the  peasants  the  prince  was  quite  simple 
and  friendly.  He  was  so  easy  to  approach  that  if  a 
man  wanted  wood  for  his  cottage,  or  if  his  horse  had 
had  an  accident,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  go  straight 
to  the  prince  and  ask  for  what  he  wanted.  He  knew 
that  he  would  not  be  refused.  The  only  things  the 
prince  could  not  stand  were  servility  and  lying.  He 
never  forgave  a  lie. 

And,  moreover,  the  serfs  loved  him  because  he 
made  no  scandals  with  their  women  folk.  The  maids 
of  our  countryside  had  a  name  for  their  good  looks, 
and  there  were  landowners  in  those  days  who  lived 
worse  than  Turks,  with  a  harem  for  themselves  and 
for  their  friends.  But  with  us,  no — no,  nothing  of 
that  sort.  That  is,  of  course,  nothing  scandalous. 
There  were  occasions,  as  there  always  must  be,  man 
being  so  weak,  but  these  were  quiet  and  gentle  affairs 
of  the  heart,  and  no  one  was  offended. 

But  though  Prince  Andrey  was  simple  and  friendly 
towards  his  inferiors,  he  was  proud  and  insolent  in 
his  bearing  towards  his  equals  and  to  those  in  authority, 
even  needlessly  so.  He  especially  disliked  officials. 
Sometimes  an  official  would  come  to  our  estate  to  see 
about  the  farming  arrangements,  or  in  connection 
with  the  police  or  with  the  excise  department — at 
that  time  the  nobility  reckoned  any  kind  of  service, 
1  "Dranny/'  meanSjtorn^or  ragged. 


56  A   SLAV   SOUL 

except  military  service,  as  a  degradation — and  he 
would  act  as  a  person  new  to  office  sometimes  does  : 
he  would  strut  about  with  an  air  of  importance,  and 
ask  "  Why  aren't  things  so  and  so  ?  "  The  steward 
would  inform  him  politely  that  everything  was  in 
accordance  with  the  prince's  orders  and  mustn't  be 
altered.  That  meant,  of  course — You  take  your 
regulation  bribe  and  be  off  with  you.  But  the  official 
would  not  be  daunted.  "  And  what's  your  prince  to 
me  ?  "  he  would  say.  "  Tm  the  representative  of  the 
law  here."  And  he  would  order  the  steward  to  take 
him  at  once  to  the  prince.  My  father  would  warn 
him  out  of  pity.  "  Our  prince,"  he  would  say,  "  has 
rather  a  heavy  hand."  But  the  official  would  not 
listen.  "  Where  is  the  prince  ?  "  he  would  cry. 
And  he  would  rush  into  the  prince's  presence  exclaim- 
ing, "  Mercy  on  us,  what's  all  this  disorder  on  your 
estate  !  Where  else  can  one  see  such  a  state  of  things  ? 
I  .  .  .  we  .  .  ."  The  prince  would  let  him  go  on, 
and  say  nothing,  then  suddenly  his  face  would  become 
purple  and  his  eyes  would  flash — he  was  terrible  to 
look  at  when  he  was  angry.  "  Take  the  scoundrel 
to  the  stables  !  "  he  would  cry.  And  then  the  official 
would  naturally  receive  a  flogging.  At  that  time 
many  landowners  approved  of  this,  and  for  some 
reason  or  other  the  floggings  always  took  place  in  the 
stables,  according  to  the  custom  of  their  ancestors. 
But  after  two  or  three  days  the  prince  would  secretly 
send  my  father  into  the  town  with  a  packet  of  bank- 
notes for  the  official  who  had  been  chastised.  I  used 
to  dare  to  say  to  him  sometimes,  "  You  know,  prince, 
the  official  will  complain  about  you,  and  you'll  have 
to   answer   for   your   doings."     And   he   would   say : 


THE   PICTURE  57 

"  Well,  how  can  that  be  ?  Let  me  be  brought  to 
account  before  God  and  my  Emperor,  but  I'm  bound 
to  punish  impudence." 

But  better  than  this,  if  you  please,  was  his 
behaviour  towards  the  Governor  at  one  time.  One 
day  a  workman  from  the  ferry  came  running  up  to 
him  to  tell  him  that  the  Governor  was  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river. 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?  "  said  the  prince. 

"  He  wants  the  ferry-boat,  your  Excellency,"  said 
the  peasant.  He  was  a  sensible  man,  and  knew  the 
prince's  character. 

"  How  did  he  ask  for  it  ?  "  said  the  prince. 

"  The  captain  of  the  police  sent  to  say  that  the 
ferry-boat  was  wanted  immediately." 

The  prince  at  once  gave  the  order  : 

"  Don't  let  him  have  it." 

And  he  didn't.  Then  the  Governor  guessed  what 
had  happened,  and  he  wrote  a  little  note  and  sent  it, 
asking  dear  Audrey  Lvovitch — they  were  really  distant 
cousins — to  be  so  kind  as  to  let  him  use  the  ferry, 
and  signing  the  note  simply  with  his  Christian  and 
surname.  On  this  the  prince  himself  kindly  went 
down  to  the  river  to  meet  the  Governor,  and  gave 
him  such  a  feast  in  welcome  that  he  couldn't  get 
away  from  Pneestcheva  for  a  whole  week. 

To  people  of  his  own  class,  even  to  the  most 
impoverished  of  them,  the  prince  never  refused  to 
"  give  satisfaction  "  in  cases  where  a  misunderstanding 
had  arisen.  But  people  were  generally  on  their 
guard,  knowing  his  indomitable  character  and  that 
he  had  fought  in  his  time  eighteen  duels.  Duels 
among  the  aristocracy  were  very  common  at  that  time. 


58  A   SLAV   SOUL 

IV 

The  prince  lived  in  this  way  on  his  estate  at  Pneest- 
cheva  for  more  than  two  years.  Then  the  Tsar  sent 
out  his  manifesto  granting  freedom  to  the  serfs,  and 
there  commenced  a  time  of  alarm  and  disturbance 
among  the  landowners.  Many  of  them  were  not  at 
all  pleased  about  it,  and  sat  at  home  on  their  far-away 
estates  and  took  to  writing  reports  on  the  matter. 
Others,  more  avaricious  and  far-sighted,  were  on  the 
watch  with  the  freed  peasants,  trying  to  turn  every- 
thing to  their  own  advantage.  And  some  were  very 
much  afraid  of  a  rising  of  the  peasants,  and  applied 
to  the  authorities  for  any  kind  of  troops  to  defend 
their  estates. 

When  the  manifesto  arrived.  Prince  Andrey  called 
his  peasants  together  and  explained  the  matter  to 
them  in  very  simple  words,  without  any  insinuations. 
"  You,"  he  said,  "  are  now  free,  as  free  as  I  am.  And 
this  is  a  good  thing  to  have  happened.  But  don't 
use  your  freedom  to  do  wrong,  because  the  authorities 
will  always  keep  an  eye  on  you.  And,  remember, 
that  as  I  have  helped  you  in  the  past  I  shall  continue 
to  do  so.  And  take  as  much  land  as  you  can  cultivate 
for  your  ransom." 

Then  he  suddenly  left  the  place  and  went  off  to 
Petersburg. 

I  think  you  know  very  well  what  happened  at 
that  time,  gentlemen,  both  in  Moscow  and  in  Peters- 
burg. The  aristocracy  turned  up  immediately,  with 
piles  of  money,  and  went  on  the  spree.  The  farmers 
and  the  holders  of  concessions  and  the  bankers  had 
amazed  all  Russia,  but   they  were  only  as  children 


THE   PICTURE  59 

or  puppies  in  comparison  with  the  landowners.  It's 
terrible  to  think  what  took  place.  Many  a  time  a 
man's  whole  fortune  was  thrown  to  the  winds  for  one 
supper. 

Prince  Audrey  fell  into  this  very  whirlpool,  and 
began  to  whirl  about.  Added  to  that,  he  fell  in 
again  with  his  old  regimental  friends,  and  then  he 
let  himself  go  altogether.  However,  he  didn't  stay 
long  in  Petersburg,  for  he  was  quickly  forced  to 
leave  the  city  against  his  will.  It  was  all  because 
of  some  horses. 


He  was  having  supper  one  evening  with  his  officer 
friends  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable  restaurants. 
They  had  had  very  much  to  drink,  champagne  above 
all.  Suddenly  the  talk  turned  on  horses — it's  well  known 
to  be  an  eternal  subject  of  conversation  with  officers — 
as  to  who  owned  the  most  spirited  team  in  Petersburg. 
One  Cossack — I  don't  remember  his  name,  I  only 
know  that  he  was  one  of  the  reigning  princes  in  the 
Caucasus — said    that    at  that  time  the  most  spirited 

horses  were  a  pair  of  black  stallions  belonging  to , 

and  he  named  a  lady  in  an  extremely  high  position. 

"  They  are  not  horses,"  said  he,  "  but  wild  things. 
It's  only  Ilya  who  can  manage  them,  and  they  won't 
allow  themselves  to  be  out-distanced." 

But  Prince  Audrey  laughed  at  this. 

"I'd  pass  them  with  my  bays." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  the  Cossack. 

"  Yes,  I  would." 

"  You  wouldn't  race  them." 

"  Yes,  I  would." 


6o  A   SLAV   SOUL 

"  Well,  in  that  case,"  said  the  Cossack,  "  we'll  lay 
a  wager  about  it  at  once." 

And  the  wager  was  laid.  It  was  agreed  that  if 
Prince  Andrey  were  put  to  shame  he  should  give  the 
Cossack  his  pair  of  bay  horses,  and  with  them  a  sledge 
and  a  carriage  with  silver  harness,  and  if  the  prince 
got  in  front  of  Ilya's  team,  then  the  Cossack  would 
buy  up  all  the  tickets  in  the  theatre  for  an  opera 
when  Madame  Barba  was  to  sing,  so  that  they  could 
walk  about  in  the  gallery  and  not  allow  anyone  else 
in  the  theatre.  At  that  time  Madame  Barba  had 
captivated  all  the  heau-monde. 

Very  well,  then.  On  the  next  day,  when  the  prince 
woke  up,  he  ordered  the  bay  horses  to  be  put  into 
the  carriage.  The  horses  were  not  very  much  to  look 
at,  hairy  country  horses,  but  they  were  sufficiently 
fast  goers  ;  the  most  important  thing  about  them 
was  that  they  liked  to  get  in  front  of  other  horses, 
and  they  were  exceptionally  long-winded. 

As  soon  as  his  companions  saw  that  the  prince 
was  really  in  earnest  about  the  matter,  they  tried  to 
dissuade  him.  "  Give  up  this  wager,"  urged  they, 
"  you  can't  escape  getting  into  some  trouble  over  it." 
But  the  prince  would  not  listen,  and  ordered  his 
coachman,  Bartholomew,  to  be  called. 

The  coachman,  Bartholomew,  was  a  gloomy  and, 
so  to  speak,  absent-minded  man.  God  had  endowed 
him  with  such  extraordinary  strength  that  he  could 
even  stop  a  troika  when  the  horses  were  going  at 
full  gallop.  The  horses  would  fall  back  on  their 
hind  legs.  He  drank  terribly,  had  no  liking  for 
conversation  with  anyone,  and,  though  he  adored  the 
prince  with  all  his  soul,  he  was  rude  and  supercilious 


THE  PICTURE  6i 

towards  him,  so  that  he  sometimes  had  to  receive  a 
flogging.  The  prince  called  Bartholomew  to  him 
and  said  :  "Do  you  think,  Bartholomew,  you  could 
race  another  pair  of  horses  with  our  bays  ?  " 

"  Which  pair  ?  "  asked  Bartholomew. 

The  prince  told  him  which  horses  they  were. 
Bartholomew  scratched  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  I  know  that  pair,"  he  said,  "  and  I  know  Ilya, 
their  driver,  pretty  well.  He's  a  dangerous  man. 
However,  if  your  Excellency  wishes  it,  we  can  race  them. 
Only,  if  the  bay  horses  are  ruined,  don't  be  angry." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  prince.  "  And  now,  how 
much  vodka  shall  we  pour  down  your  throat  ?  " 

But  Bartholomew  wouldn't  have  any  vodka. 

"  I  can't  manage  the  horses  if  I'm  drunk,"  said  he. 

The  prince  got  in  the  carriage,  and  they  started. 
They  took  up  their  position  at  the  end  of  the  Nevsky 
Prospect,  and  waited.  It  was  known  beforehand 
that  the  important  personage  would  drive  out  at 
midday.  And  so  it  happened.  At  twelve  o'clock 
the  pair  of  black  horses  were  seen.  Ilya  was  driving, 
and  the  lady  was  in  the  sledge. 

The  prince  let  them  just  get  in  front,  and  then  he 
said  to  the  coachman  : 

"  Drive  away  !  " 

Bartholomew  let  the  horses  go.  As  soon  as  Ilya 
heard  the  tramping  of  the  horses  behind,  he  turned 
round  ;  the  lady  looked  round  also.  Ilya  gave  his 
horses  the  reins,  and  Bartholomew  also  whipped  up 
his.  But  the  owner  of  the  blacks  was  a  woman  of  an 
ardent  and  fearless  temperament,  and  she  had  a  passion 
for  horses.  She  said  to  Ilya,  "  Don't  dare  to  let 
that  scoundrel  pass  us  !  " 


62  A  SLAV  SOUL 

What  began  to  happen  then  I  can't  describe.  Both 
the  coachmen  and  the  horses  were  as  if  mad  ;  the 
snow  rose  up  above  them  in  clouds  as  they  raced  along. 
At  first  the  blacks  seemed  to  be  gaining,  but  they 
couldn't  last  out  for  a  long  time,  they  got  tired.  The 
prince's  horses  went  ahead.  Near  the  railway  station, 
Prince  Andrey  jumped  out  of  his  carriage,  and  the 
personage  threatened  him  angrily  with  her  finger. 

Next  day  the  governor  of  Petersburg — His  Serene 
Highness  Prince  Suvorof — sent  for  the  prince,  and 
said  to  him : 

"  You  must  leave  Petersburg  at  once,  prince. 
If  you're  not  punished  and  made  an  example  of, 
it's  only  because  the  lady  whom  you  treated  in  such 
a  daring  fashion  yesterday  has  a  great  partiality  for 
bold  and  desperate  characters.  And  she  knows 
also  about  your  wager.  But  don't  put  your  foot  in 
Petersburg  again,  and  thank  the  Lord  that  you've 
got  off  so  cheaply." 

But,  gentlemen,  I've  been  gossiping  about  Prince 
Andrey  and  I  haven't  yet  touched  on  what  I  promised 
to  tell  you.  However,  I'm  soon  coming  to  the  end 
of  my  story.  And,  though  it  has  been  in  rather  a 
disjointed  fashion,  I  have  described  the  personality 
of  the  prince  as  best  I  can. 

VI 

After  his  famous  race  the  prince  went  off  to  Moscow, 
and  there  continued  to  behave  as  he  had  done  in 
Petersburg,  only  on  a  larger  scale.  At  one  time  the 
whole  town  talked  of  nothing  but  his  caprices.  And 
it  was  there  that  something  happened  to  him  which 


THE  PICTURE  >^    63 

caused  all  the  folks  at  Pneestcheva  to  mock.  A 
woman  came  into  his  life. 

But  I  must  tell  you  what  sort  of  a  woman  she  was. 
A  queen  of  women  !  There  are  none  like  her  in  these 
days.  Of  a  most  marvellous  beauty.  .  .  .  She  had 
formerly  been  an  actress,  then  she  had  married  a 
merchant  millionaire,  and  when  he  died — she  didn't 
want  to  marry  anyone  else — she  said  that  she  preferred 
to  be  free. 

What  specially  attracted  the  prince  to  her  was 
her  carelessness.  She  didn't  wish  to  know  anyone, 
neither  rich  nor  illustrious  people,  and  she  seemed  to 
think  nothing  of  her  own  great  wealth.  As  soon  as 
Prince  Andrey  saw  her  he  fell  in  love  with  her.  He 
was  used  to  having  women  run  after  him,  and  so  he 
had  very  little  respect  for  them.  But  in  this  case 
the  lady  paid  him  no  special  attention  at  all.  She 
was  gay  and  affable,  she  accepted  his  bouquets  and 
his  presents,  but  directly  he  spoke  of  his  feelings 
she  laughed  at  him.  The  prince  was  stung  by  this 
treatment.     He  nearly  went  out  of  his  mind. 

Once  the  prince  went  with  Marya  Gavrilovna — • 
that  was  the  lady's  name — to  the  Yar,  to  hear  some 
gipsy  singers.  The  party  numbered  fifteen.  At  that 
time  the  prince  was  surrounded  and  fawned  upon 
by  a  whole  crowd  of  hangers-on — his  Belonogof 
company,  as  he  called  them — his  own  name  was 
Belonogof.  They  were  all  seated  at  a  table  drinking 
wine,  and  the  gipsies  were  singing  and  dancing. 
Suddenly,  Marya  Gavrilovna  wanted  to  smoke.  She 
took  a  packetoska — the  sort  of  twisted  straw  cigarette 
they  used  to  smoke  in  those  days — and  looked  round 
for  a  hght.     The  prince  noticed  this,  and  in  a  moment 


64  A  SLAV   SOUL 

he  pulled  out  a  bank-note  for  a  thousand  roubles, 
lighted  it  at  a  candle  and  handed  it  to  her.  Everybody 
in  the  company  exclaimed  ;  the  gipsies  even  stopped 
singing,  and  their  eyes  gleamed  with  greed.  And  then 
someone  at  a  neighbouring  table  said,  not  very  loudly, 
but  with  sufficient  distinctness,  "  Fool  !  " 

The  prince  jumped  up  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  At 
the  other  table  sat  a  small  sickly-looking  man,  who 
looked  straight  at  the  prince  in  the  calmest  manner 
possible.     The  prince  went  over  to  him  at  once. 

"  How  dare  you  call  me  a  fool  ?     Who  are  you  ?  " 

The  little  man  regarded  him  very  coolly. 

"  I,"  said  he,  "  am  the  artist  Rozanof.  And  I 
called  you  a  fool  because,  with  that  money  you  burnt 
just  to  show  off,  you  might  have  paid  for  the  support 
of  four  sick  people  in  the  hospital  for  a  whole  year." 

Everybody  sat  and  waited  for  what  would  happen. 
The  unrestrained  character  of  the  prince  was  well 
known.  Would  he  at  once  chastise  the  little  man, 
or  call  him  out  to  a  duel,  or  simply  order  him  to  be 
whipped  ? 

But,  after  a  little  silence,  the  prince  suddenly  turned 
to  the  artist  with  these  unexpected  words  : 

"  You're  quite  right,  Mr,  Rozanof.  I  did  indeed 
act  as  a  fool  before  this  crowd.  But  now  if  you  don't 
at  once  give  me  your  hand,  and  accept,  five  thousand 
roubles  for  the  Marinskaya  Hospital,  I  shall  be  deeply 
offended." 

And  Rozanof  answered:  "Til  take  the  money, 
and  I'll  give  you  my  hand  with  equal  pleasure." 

Then  Marya  Gavrilovna  whispered  to  the  prince, 
"  Ask  the  artist  to  come  and  talk  to  us,  and  send 
away  these  friends  of  yours." 


THE  PICTURE  65 

The  prince  turned  politely  to  Rozanof  and  begged 
him  to  join  them,  and  then  he  turned  to  the  officers 
and  said,  "Be  off  with  you  !  " 

VII 

From  that  time  the  prince  and  Rozanof  were  bound 
together  in  a  close  friendship.  They  couldn't  spend 
a  day  without  seeing  one  another.  Either  the  artist 
came  to  visit  the  prince  or  Prince  Audrey  went  to  see 
the  artist.  Rozanof  was  living  then  in  two  rooms 
on  the  fourth  floor  of  a  house  in  Mestchanskaya  Street 
— one  he  used  as  a  studio,  the  other  was  his  bedroom. 
The  prince  invited  the  artist  to  come  and  live  with 
him,  but  Rozanof  refused.  "  You  are  very  dear  to 
me,"  said  he,  "  but  in  wealthy  surroundings  I  might 
be  idle  and  forget  my  art."  So  he  wouldn't  make 
any  change. 

They  were  interested  in  everything  that  concerned 
one  another.  Rozanof  would  begin  to  talk  of  painting, 
of  various  pictures,  of  the  lives  of  great  artists — and 
the  prince  would  listen  and  not  utter  a  word.  Then 
afterwards  he  would  tell  about  his  adventures  in  wild 
countries,  and  the  artist's  eyes  would  glisten. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  he  would  say.  "  I  think  I  shall 
soon  paint  a  great  picture.  Then  I  shall  have  plenty 
of  money,  and  we'll  go  abroad  together." 

"  But  why  do  you  want  money  ?  "  asked  the  prince. 
"  If  you  like,  we  can  go  to-morrow.  Everything  I 
have  I  will  share  with  you." 

But  the  artist  remained  firm. 

"  No,  wait  a  little,"  said  he.  "  I'll  paint  the  picture 
and  then  we  can  talk  about  it." 

There   was   a   real    friendship   between   them.     It 

S.S.  F 


66  A  SLAV  SOUL 

was  even  marvellous  —  for  Rozanof  had  such  an 
influence  over  the  prince  that  he  restrained  him  from 
many  of  the  impetuous  and  thoughtless  actions  to 
which,  with  his  fiery  temperament,  he  was  specially 
prone. 

VIII 

The  prince's  love  for  Marya  Gavrilovna  did  not 
become  less,  it  even  increased  in  fervency,  but  he 
had  no  success  with  the  lady.  He  pressed  his  hands 
to  his  heart,  and  went  down  on  his  knees  to  her  many 
times,  but  she  had  only  one  answer  for  him :  "  But 
what  can  I  do  if  I  don't  love  you  ?  "  "  Well,  don't 
love  me,"  said  the  prince ;  "  perhaps  you  will  love  me 
by  and  by,  but  I  can't  be  happy  without  you." 
Then  she  would  say,  "I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  but  I 
can't  help  your  unhappiness."  "  You  love  someone 
else,  perhaps,"  said  the  prince.  "  Perhaps  I  love 
someone  else,"  said  she,  and  she  laughed. 

The  prince  grew  very  sad  about  it.  He  would  lie 
at  home  on  the  sofa,  gloomy  and  silent,  turn  his  face 
to  the  wall,  and  even  refuse  to  take  any  food.  Every- 
body in  the  house  went  about  on  tip-toe.  .  .  .  One 
day  Rozanof  called  when  the  prince  was  in  this  state, 
and  he  too  looked  out  of  sorts.  He  came  into  the 
prince's  room,  said  "  Good  morning,"  and  nothing 
more.  They  were  both  silent.  At  length  the  artist 
pulled  himself  together  and  said  to  the  prince,  "  Listen, 
Audrey  Lvovitch.  I'm  very  sorry  that  with  my  friendly 
hand  I  have  got  to  deal  you  a  blow." 

The  prince,  who  was  lying  with  his  face  to  the  wall, 
said,  "  Please  come  straight  to  the  point  without  any 
introduction," 


THE  PICTURE  67 

Then  the  artist  explained  what  he  meant. 

"  Marya  Gavrilovna  is  going  to  Hve  with  me  as  my 
wife,"  said  he. 

"  You're  going  out  of  your  mind,"  said  the 
prince. 

"  No,"  said  the  artist,  "  I'm  not  going  out  of  my 
mind.  I  have  loved  Marya  Gavrilovna  for  a  long  time, 
but  I  never  dared  tell  her  so.  But  to-day  she  said 
to  me  :  '  Why  do  we  hide  things  from  one  another  ? 
I've  seen  for  a  long  time  that  you  love  me,  and  I 
also  love  you.  I  won't  marry  you,  but  we  can  live 
together.  .  .  .'  " 

The  artist  told  the  whole  story,  and  the  prince  lay 
on  the  sofa  neither  moving  nor  saying  a  word.  Rozanof 
sat  there  and  looked  at  him,  and  presently  he  went 
quietly  away. 

IX 

However,  after  a  week,  the  prince  overcame  his 
feehngs,  though  it  cost  him  a  good  deal,  for  his  hair 
had  begun  to  turn  grey.  He  went  to  Rozanof  and 
said  : 

"  I  see  love  can't  be  forced,  but  I  don't  want  to 
lose  my  only  friend  for  the  sake  of  a  woman." 

Rozanof  put  his  arms  about  his  friend  and  wept. 
And  Marya  Gavrilovna  gave  him  her  hand — she 
was  there  at  the  time — and  said  : 

"  I  admire  you  very  much,  Audrey  Lvovitch,  and 
I  also  want  to  be  your  friend." 

Then  the  prince  was  quite  cheered  up,  and  his  face 
brightened.  "  Confess  now,"  said  he,  "  if  Rozanof 
hadn't  called  me  a  fool  that  time  in  the  Yar,  you 
wouldn't  have  fallen  in  love  with  him  ?  " 

F  2 


68  A   SLAV  SOUL 

She  only  smiled. 

"  That's  very  probable,"  said  she. 

Then,  in  another  week,  something  else  happened. 
Prince  Andrey  came  in  one  day,  dull  and  absent- 
minded.  He  spoke  of  one  thing  and  another,  but 
always  as  if  he  had  some  persistent  idea  in  the  back- 
ground. The  artist,  who  knew  his  character,  asked 
what  was  the  matter. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  the  prince. 

"  Well,  but  all  the  same,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing,  I  tell  you.  The  stupid  bank  in 
which  my  money  is  .  .  ." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  It's  failed.  And  now  I've  nothing  of  all  my 
property  except  what  I  have  here  with  me." 

"  Oh,  that's  really  nothing,"  said  Rozanof,  and  he 
at  once  called  Marya  Gavrilovna,  and  they  had  the 
upper  part  of  their  house  put  in  order  so  that  the 
prince  might  come  and  live  with  them. 

X 

So  the  prince  settled  down  to  live  with  Rozanof. 

He  used  to  lie  on  the  sofa  all  day,  read  French  novels 

and  polish  his  nails.     But  he  soon  got  tired  of  this, 

and  one  day  he  said  to  his  friend  : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  once  learnt  to  paint  !  " 

Rozanof  was  surprised.     "  No,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did.     I  can  even  show  you  some  of  my 

pictures." 

Rozanof  looked  at  them,  and  then  he  said  : 

"  You  have  very  good  capabilities,  but  you  have 

been  taught  in  a  stupid  school." 
The  prince  was  delighted. 


THE   PICTURE  69 

"  Well,"  he  asked,  "  if  I  began  to  study  now,  do 
you  think  I  should  ever  paint  anything  good  ?  " 

"  I  think  it's  very  probable  indeed." 

"  Even  if  Tve  been  an  idler  up  till  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing.  You  can  overcome  it  by 
work." 

"  When  my  hair  is  grey  ?  " 

"  That  doesn't  matter  either.  Other  people  have 
begun  later  than  you.  If  you  like,  Fll  give  you  lessons 
myself." 

So  they  began  to  work  together.  Rozanof  could 
only  marvel  at  the  great  gift  for  painting  which  the 
prince  displayed.  And  the  prince  was  so  taken  up 
by  his  work  that  he  never  wanted  to  leave  it,  and 
had  to  be  dragged  away  by  force. 

Five  months  passed.  Then,  one  day,  Rozanof 
came  to  the  prince  and  said  : 

"  Well,  my  colleague,  you  are  ripening  in  your  art, 
and  you  already  understand  what  a  drawing  is  and 
the  school.  Formerly  you  were  a  savage,  but  now 
you  have  developed  a  refined  taste.  Come  with  me 
and  I  will  show  you  the  picture  I  once  gave  you  a 
hint  about.  Until  now  I've  kept  it  a  secret  from 
everybody,  but  now  Fll  show  you,  and  you  can  tell 
me  your  opinion  of  it." 

He  led  the  prince  into  his  studio,  placed  him  in  a 
corner  from  whence  he  could  get  a  good  view,  and 
drew  a  curtain  which  hung  in  front  of  the  picture. 
It  represented  St.  Barbara  washing  the  sores  on  the 
feet  of  lepers. 

The  prince  stood  for  a  long  time  and  looked  at  the 
picture,  and  his  face  became  gloomy  as  if  it  had  been 
darkened. 


70  A  SLAV  SOUL 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  "  asked  Rozanof. 

"  This "    answered    the    prince,    with    rancour, 

"  that  1  shall  never  touch  a  paint-brush  again." 

XI 

Rozanof's  picture  was  the  outcome  of  the  highest 
inspiration  and  art.  It  showed  St.  Barbara  kneeling 
before  the  lepers  and  bathing  their  terrible  feet, 
her  face  radiant  and  joyful,  and  of  an  unearthly 
beauty.  The  lepers  looked  at  her  in  prayerful  ecstasy 
and  inexpressible  gratitude.  The  picture  was  a  marvel. 
Rozanof  had  designed  it  for  an  exhibition,  but  the 
newspapers  proclaimed  its  fame  beforehand.  The 
public  flocked  to  the  artist's  studio.  People  came, 
looked  at  St.  Barbara  and  the  lepers,  and  stood  there 
for  an  hour  or  more.  And  even  those  who  knew 
nothing  about  art  were  moved  to  tears.  An  English- 
man, who  was  in  Moscow  at  the  time,  a  Mr.  Bradley, 
offered  fifteen  thousand  roubles  for  the  picture  as 
soon  as  he  looked  at  it.  Rozanof,  however,  would 
not  agree  to  sell  it. 

But  something  strange  was  happening  to  the  prince 
at  that  time.  He  went  about  with  a  sullen  look, 
seemed  to  get  thinner,  and  talked  to  no  one.  He 
took  to  drink.  Rozanof  tried  to  get  him  to  talk, 
but  he  only  got  rude  answers,  and  when  the  public 
had  left  the  studio,  the  prince  would  seat  himself 
before  the  easel  and  remain  there  for  hours,  immovable, 
gazing  at  the  holy  Barbara,  gazing  .  .  . 

So  it  went  on  for  more  than  a  fortnight,  and  then 
something  unexpected  happened — to  tell  the  truth, 
something  dreadful. 

Rozanof  came  home  one  day  and  asked  if  Prince 


THE  PICTURE  71 

Andrey  were  in.  The  servant  said  that  the  prince 
had  gone  out  very  early  that  morning,  and  had  left  a 
note. 

The  artist  took  the  note  and  read  it.  And  this  was 
what  was  written.  "  Forgive  my  terrible  action. 
I  was  mad,  and  in  a  moment  I  have  repented  of  my 
deed.  I  am  going  away,  never  to  return,  because  I 
haven't  strength  to  kill  myself."  The  note  was  signed 
with  his  name. 

Then  the  artist  understood  it  all.  He  rushed  into 
his  studio  and  found  his  divine  work  lying  on  the  floor, 
torn  to  pieces,  trampled  upon,  cut  into  shreds  with 
a  knife.  .  .  .  ^ 

Then  he  began  to  weep,  and  said  : 

"  Tm  not  sorry  for  the  picture,  but  for  him.  Why 
couldn't  he  tell  me  what  was  in  his  mind  ?  I  would 
have  sold  the  picture  at  once,  or  given  it  away  to 
someone." 

But  nothing  more  was  ever  heard  of  Prince  Andrey, 
and  no  one  knew  how  he  hved  after  his  mad  deed. 


VI 

HAMLET 


"  Hamlet  "  was  being  played. 

All  tickets  had  been  sold  out  before  the  morning 
of  the  performance.  The  play  was  more  than  usually 
attractive  to  the  public  because  the  principal  part 
was  to  be  taken  by  the  famous  Kostromsky,  who, 
ten  years  before,  had  begun  his  artistic  career  with  a 
simple  walking-on  part  in  this  very  theatre,  and  since 
then  had  played  in  all  parts  of  Russia,  and  gained  a 
resounding  fame  such  as  no  other  actor  visiting  the  pro- 
vinces had  ever  obtained.  It  was  true  that,  during  the 
last  year,  people  had  gossiped  about  him,  and  there  had 
even  appeared  in  the  Press  certain  vague  and  only 
half-believed  rumours  about  him.  It  was  said  that 
continual  drunkenness  and  debauch  had  unsettled 
and  ruined  Kostromsky's  gigantic  talent,  that  only 
by  being  "  on  tour  "  had  he  continued  to  enjoy  the 
fruit  of  his  past  successes,  that  impresarios  of  the 
great  metropolitan  theatres  had  begun  to  show  less  of 
their  former  slavish  eagerness  to  agree  to  his  terms. 
WHio  knows,  there  may  have  been  a  certain  amount  of 
truth  in  these  rumours  ?  But  the  name  of  Kostromsky 
was  still  great  enough  to  draw  the  public.  For  three 
days  in  succession,  in  spite  of  the  increased  prices  of 


HAMLET  73 

seats,  there  had  been  a  long  Hne  of  people  waiting 
at  the  box  office.  Speculative  buyers  had  resold 
tickets  at  three,  four,  and  even  five  times  their 
original  value. 

The  first  scene  was  omitted,  and  the  stage  was 
being  prepared  for  the  second.  The  footlights  had 
not  yet  been  turned  up.  The  scenery  of  the  queen's 
palace  was  hanging  in  strange,  rough,  variegated 
cardboard.  The  stage  carpenters  were  hastily  driving 
in  the  last  nails. 

The  theatre  had  gradually  filled  with  people.  From 
behind  the  curtain  could  be  heard  a  dull  and  mono- 
tonous murmur. 

Kostromsky  was  seated  in  front  of  the  mirror  in  his 
dressing-room.  He  had  only  just  arrived,  but  was 
already  dressed  in  the  traditional  costume  of  the 
Danish  prince  ;  black-cloth  buckled  shoes,  short  black 
velvet  jacket  with  wide  lace  collar.  The  theatrical 
barber  stood  beside  him  in  a  servile  attitude,  holding 
a  wig  of  long  fair  hair. 

"  He  is  fat  and  pants  for  breath,"  declaimed 
Kostromsky,  rubbing  some  cold  cream  on  his  palm 
and  beginning  to  smear  his  face  with  it. 

The  barber  suddenly  began  to  laugh. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  fool  ?  "  asked  the 
actor,  not  taking  his  eyes  from  the  mirror. 

"  Oh,  I  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  nothing  .  .  .  er.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  it's  evident  you're  a  fool.  They  say  that 
I'm  too  fat  and  flabby.  And  Shakspeare  himself 
said  that  Hamlet  was  fat  and  panted  for  breath. 
They're  all  good-for-nothings,  these  newspaper  fellows. 
They  just  bark  at  the  wind." 

Having  finished  with  the  cold  cream,  Kostromsky 


74  A   SLAV  SOUL 

put  the  flesh  tints  on  to  his  face  in  the  same  manner, 
but  looking  more  attentively  into  the  mirror. 

"  Yes,  make-up  is  a  great  thing;  but  all  the  same, 
my  face  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  Look  at  the  bags 
under  my  eyes,  and  the  deep  folds  round  my  mouth  .  .  . 
cheeks  all  puffed  out  .  .  .  nose  lost  its  fine  shape. 
Ah,  well,  we'll  struggle  on  a  bit  longer.  .  .  .  Kean 
drank,  Mochalof  drank  ,  ,  .  hang  it  all.  Let  them 
talk  about  Kostromsky  and  say  that  he's  a  bloated 
drunkard.  Kostromsky  will  show  them  in  a  moment 
.  .  .  these  youngsters  .  .  .  these  water-people  .  .  . 
he'll  show  them  what  real  talent  can  do." 

"  You,  Ethiop,  have  you  ever  seen  me  act  ?  "  he 
asked,  turning  suddenly  on  the  barber. 

The  man  trembled  all  over  with  pleasure. 

"  Mercy  on  us,  Alexander  Yevgrafitch.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  ,  .  .  O  Lord  !  ...  is  it  possible  for  me  not  to 
have  seen  the  greatest,  one  may  say,  of  Russian 
artists  ?  Why,  in  Kazan  I  made  a  wig  for  you  with 
my  own  hands." 

"  The  devil  may  know  you.  I  don't  remember," 
said  Kostromsky,  continuing  to  make  long  and  narrow 
lines  of  white  down  the  length  of  his  nose,  "  there  are 
so  many  of  you.  .  .  .  Pour  out  something  to  drink  !  " 

The  barber  poured  out  half  a  tumblerful  of  vodka 
from  the  decanter  on  the  marble  dressing-table,  and 
handed  it  to  Kostromsky. 

The  actor  drank  it  off,  screwed  up  his  face,  and  spat 
on  the  floor. 

"  You'd  better  have  a  little  something  to  eat, 
Alexander  Yevgrafitch,"  urged  the  barber  persua- 
sively. "  If  you  take  it  neat  ...  it  goes  to  your 
head.  .  ,  ." 


HAMLET  75 

Kostromsky  had  almost  finished  his  make-up ; 
he  had  only  to  put  on  a  few  streaks  of  brown  colouring, 
and  the  "  clouds  of  grief  "  overshadowed  his  changed 
and  ennobled  countenance. 

"  Give  me  my  cloak  !  "  said  he  imperiously  to  the 
barber,  getting  up  from  his  chair. 

From  the  theatre  there  could  already  be  heard, 
in  the  dressing-room,  the  sounds  of  the  tuning  of  the 
instruments  in  the  orchestra. 

The  crowds  of  people  had  all  arrived.  The  living 
stream  could  be  heard  pouring  into  the  theatre  and 
flowing  into  the  boxes  stalls  and  galleries  with  the  noise 
and  the  same  kind  of  pecuHar  rumble  as  of  a  far-off  sea, 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  the  place  has  been  so  full," 
remarked  the  barber  in  servile  ecstasy;  "there's 
n-not  an  empty  seat  !  " 

Kostromsky  sighed. 

He  was  still  confident  in  his  great  talent,  still  full 
of  a  frank  self-adoration  and  the  illimitable  pride  of 
an  artist,  but,  although  he  hardly  dared  to  allow 
himself  to  be  conscious  of  it,  he  had  an  uneasy  feeUng 
that  his  laurels  had  begun  to  fade.  Formerly  he  had 
never  consented  to  come  to  the  theatre  until  the 
director  had  brought  to  his  hotel  the  stipulated  five 
hundred  roubles,  his  night's  pay,  and  he  had  sometimes 
taken  offence  in  the  middle  of  a  play  and  gone  home, 
swearing  with  all  his  might  at  the  director,  the  manager, 
and  the  whole  company. 

The  barber's  remark  was  a  vivid  and  painful  reminder 
of  these  years  of  his  extraordinary  and  colossal 
successes.  Nowadays  no  director  would  bring  him 
payment  in  advance,  and  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  contrive  to  demand  it. 


76  A   SLAV  SOUL 

"  Pour  out  some  more  vodka,"  said  he  to  the  barber. 

There  was  no  more  vodka  left  in  the  decanter. 
But  the  actor  had  received  sufficient  stimulus.  His 
eyes,  encircled  by  fine  sharp  lines  of  black  drawn 
along  both  eyelids,  were  larger  and  more  full  of  life, 
his  bent  body  straightened  itself,  his  swollen  legs, 
in  their  tight-fitting  black,  looked  lithe  and  strong. 

He  finished  his  toilet  by  dusting  powder  over  his 
face,  with  an  accustomed  hand,  then  slightly  screwing 
up  his  eyes  he  regarded  himself  in  the  mirror  for  the 
last  time,  and  went  out  of  the  dressing-room. 

When  he  descended  the  staircase,  with  his  slow 
self-reliant  step,  his  head  held  high,  every  movement 
of  his  was  marked  by  that  easy  gracious  simplicity 
which  had  so  impressed  the  actors  of  the  French 
company,  who  had  seen  him  when  he,  a  former  draper's 
assistant,  had  first  appeared  in  Moscow. 

II 

The  stage  manager  had  already  rushed  forward  to 
greet  Kostromsky. 

The  lights  in  the  theatre  blazed  high.  The  chaotic 
disharmony  of  the  orchestra  tuning  their  instruments 
suddenly  died  down.  The  noise  of  the  crowd  grew 
louder,  and  then,  as  it  were,  suddenly  subsided  a 
little. 

Out  broke  the  sounds  of  a  loud  triumphal  march. 
Kostromsky  went  up  to  the  curtain  and  looked  through 
a  little  round  hole  made  in  it  at  about  a  man's  height. 
The  theatre  was  crowded  with  people.  He  could 
only  see  distinctly  the  faces  of  those  in  the  first  three 
rows,  but  beyond,  wherever  his  eye  turned,  to  left, 
to  right,  above,  below,  there  moved,  in  a  sort  of  bluish 


HAMLET  77 

haze,  an  immense  number  of  many-coloured  human 
blobs.  Only  the  side  boxes,  with  their  white  and  gold 
arabesques  and  their  crimson  barriers,  stood  out 
against  all  this  agitated  obscurity.  But  as  he  looked 
through  the  little  hole  in  the  curtain,  Kostromsky 
did  not  experience  in  his  soul  that  feeling — once  so 
familiar  and  always  singularly  fresh  and  powerful — 
of  a  joyous,  instantaneous  uplifting  of  his  whole  moral 
being.  It  was  just  a  year  since  he  had  ceased  to  feel 
so,  and  he  explained  his  indifference  by  thinking  he 
had  grown  accustomed  to  the  stage,  and  did  not 
suspect  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  paralysis  of 
his  tired  and  worn-out  soul. 

The  manager  rushed  on  to  the  stage  behind  him, 
all  red  and  perspiring,  with  dishevelled  hair. 

"  Devil  !  Idiocy  !  All's  gone  to  the  devil  !  One 
might  as  well  cut  one's  throat,"  he  burst  out  in  a  voice 
of  fury,  running  up  to  Kostromsky.  Here  you, 
devils,  let  me  come  to  the  curtain  !  I  must  go  out 
and  tell  the  people  at  once  that  there  will  be  no 
performance.  There's  no  Ophelia.  Understand ! 
There's  no  Ophelia." 

"  How  do  you  mean  there's  no  Ophelia  ?  "  said  the 
astonished  Kostromsky,  knitting  his  brows.  "  You're 
joking,  aren't  you,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  There's  no  joking  in  me,"  snarled  the  manager. 
"  Only  just  this  moment,  five  minutes  before  she's 
wanted,  I  receive  this  little  billet-doux  from  Milevskaya. 
Just  look,  look,  what  this  idiot  writes  !  '  I'm  in  bed 
with  a  feverish  cold  and  can't  play  my  part.'  Well  ? 
Don't  you  understand  what  it  means  ?  This  is  not 
a  pound  of  raisins,  old  man,  pardon  the  expression, 
it  means  we  can't  produce  the  play." 


78  A  SLAV  SOUL 

"  Someone  else  must  take  her  place,"  Kostromsky 
flashed  out.     "  What  have  her  tricks  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

"  Who  can  take  her  place,  do  you  think  ?  Bobrova 
is  Gertrude,  Markovitch  and  Smolenskaya  have  a 
holiday  and  they've  gone  off  to  the  town  with  some 
officers.  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  make  an  old  woman 
take  the  part  of  Ophelia.  Don't  you  think  so  ? 
Or  there's  someone  else  if  you  like,  a  young  girl 
student.    Shall  we  ask  her  ?  " 

He  pointed  straight  in  front  of  him  to  a  young  girl 
who  was  just  walking  on  to  the  stage  ;  a  girl  in  a 
modest  coat  and  fur  cap,  with  gentle  pale  face  and 
large  dark  eyes. 

The  young  girl,  astonished  at  such  unexpected 
attention,  stood  still. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  asked  Kostromsky  in  a  low  voice, 
looking  with  curiosity  at  the  girl's  face. 

"  Her  name's  Yureva.  She's  here  as  a  student. 
She's  smitten  with  a  passion  for  dramatic  art,  you 
see,"  answered  the  manager,  speaking  loudly  and 
without  any  embarrassment. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Yureva.  Have  you  ever  read 
'  Hamlet '  ?  "  asked  Kostromsky,  going  nearer  to  the  girl. 

"  Of  course  I  have,"  answered  she  in  a  low  confused 
voice. 

"  Could  you  play  Opheha  here  this  evening  ?  " 

"  I  know  the  part  by  heart,  but  I  don't  know  if  I 
could  play  it." 

Kostromsky  went  close  up  to  her  and  took  her  by 
the  hand. 

"  You  see  .  .  .  Milevskaya  has  refused  to  play, 
and  the  theatre's  full.  Make  up  your  mind,  my  dear  ! 
You  can  be  the  saving  of  us  all !  " 


HAMLET  79 

Yureva  hesitated  and  was  silent,  though  she  would 
have  liked  to  say  much,  very  much,  to  the  famous 
actor.  It  was  he  who,  three  years  ago,  by  his 
marvellous  acting,  had  unconsciously  drawn  her 
young  heart,  with  an  irresistible  attraction,  to  the 
stage.  She  had  never  missed  a  performance  in  which 
he  had  taken  part,  and  she  had  often  wept  at  nights 
after  seeing  him  act  in  "  Cain,"  in  "  The  Criminal's 
Home,"  or  in  "  Uriel  da  Costa."  She  would  have 
accounted  it  her  greatest  happiness,  and  one  apparently 
never  to  be  attained  .  .  .  not  to  speak  to  Kostromsky ; 
no,  of  that  she  had  never  dared  to  dream,  but  only 
to  see  him  nearer  in  ordinary  surroundings. 

She  had  never  lost  her  admiration  of  him,  and  only 
an  actor  like  Kostromsky,  spoilt  by  fame  and  satiated 
by  the  attentions  of  women,  could  have  failed  to  notice 
at  rehearsals  the  two  large  dark  eyes  which  followed 
him  constantly  with  a  frank  and  persistent  adoration. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  Can  we  take  your  silence  for 
consent  ?  "  insisted  Kostromsky,  looking  into  her 
face  with  a  searching,  kindly  glance,  and  putting  into 
the  somewhat  nasal  tones  of  his  voice  that  irresistible 
tone  of  friendliness  which  he  well  knew  no  woman 
could  withstand. 

Yureva's  hand  trembled  in  his,  her  eyelids  drooped, 
and  she  answered  submissively  : 

"  Very  well.     Fll  go  and  dress  at  once." 

Ill 

The  curtain  rose,  and  no  sooner  did  the  public  see 
their  favourite  than  the  theatre  shook  with  sounds  of 
applause  and  cries  of  ecstasy. 

Kostromsky     standing    near    the    king's    throne, 


8o  A  SLAV  SOUL 

bowed  many  times,  pressed  his  hand  to  his  heart,  and 
sent  his  gaze  over  the  whole  assembly. 

At  length,  after  several  unsuccessful  attempts, 
the  king,  taking  advantage  of  a  moment  when  the 
noise  had  subsided  a  little,  raised  his  voice  and  began 
his  speech : 

"Though  yet  of  Hamlet  our  dear  brother's  death 
The  memory  be  green,  and  that  it  us  befitted 
To  bear  our  hearts  in  grief,  and  our  whole  kingdom 
To  be  contracted  in  one  brow  oi  woe ; 
Yet  so  far  hath  discreti  :>n  fought  with  nature 
That  we  with  wisest  sorrow  think  on  him.  .  .  ." 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  crowd  had  affected  Kos- 
tromsky,  and  when  the  king  turned  to  him,  and 
addressed  him  as  "  brother  and  beloved  son,"  the  words 
of  Hamlet's  answer : 

"A  little  more  than  kin  and  less  than  kind," 

sounded  so  gloomily  ironical  and  sad  that  an 
involuntary  thrill  ran  through  the  audience. 

And  when  the  queen,  with  hypocritical  words  of 
consolation,  said  : 

"  Thou  knowst  'tis  common ;  all  that  lives  must  die, 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity," 

he  slowly  raised  his  long  eyelashes,  which  he  had  kept 
lowered  until  that  moment,  looked  reproachfully  at 
her,  and  then  answered  with  a  slight  shake  of  the  head  : 

"  Ay,  madam,  it  is  common." 

After  these  words,  expressing  so  fully  his  grief 
for  his  dead  father,  his  own  aversion  from  life  and  sub- 
mission to  fate,  and  his  bitter  scorn  of  his  mother's 
light-mindedness,  Kostromsky,  with  the  special,  delicate. 


HAMLET  8i 

inexplicable  sensitiveness  of  an  experienced  actor, 
felt  that  now  he  had  entirely  gripped  his  audience 
and  bound  them  to  him  with  an  inviolable  chain. 

It  seemed  as  if  no  one  had  ever  before  spoken  with 
such  marvellous  force  that  despairing  speech  of  Hamlet 
at  the  exit  of  the  king  and  queen  : 

"  O,  that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew  I  " 

The  nasal  tones  of  Kostromsky's  voice  were  clear 
and  flexible.  Now  it  rang  out  with  a  mighty  clang, 
then  sank  to  a  gentle  velvety  whisper  or  burst  into 
hardly  restrained  sobs. 

And  when,  with  a  simple  yet  elegant  gesture, 
Kostromsky  pronounced  the  last  words  : 

"  But  break  my  heart,  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue  1  " 

the  audience  roared  out  its  applause. 

"  Yes,  the  public  and  I  understand  one  another," 
said  the  actor  as  he  went  off  the  stage  into  the  wings 
after  the  first  act.  "  Here,  you  crocodile,  give  me 
some  vodka  !  "  he  shouted  at  once  to  the  barber 
who  was  coming  to  meet  him. 

IV 

"  Well,  little  father,  don't  you  think  he's  fine  ?  " 
said  a  young  actor-student  to  Yakovlef,  the  patriarch 
of  provincial  actors,  who  was  taking  the  part  of  the 
king. 

The  two  were  standing  together  on  the  staircase 
which  led  from  the  dressing-rooms  to  the  stage. 

Yakovlef  pursed  and  bit  his  full  thick  lips. 


s.s. 


82  A   SLAV  SOUL 

"  Fine  !  Fine  !  But  all  the  same,  he  acts  as  a 
boy.  Those  who  saw  Mochalof  play  Hamlet  wouldn't 
marvel  at  this.  I,  brother,  was  just  such  a  little 
chap  as  you  are  when  I  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  him 
first.  And  when  I  come  to  die,  I  shall  look  back  on 
that  as  the  most  blessed  moment  of  my  life.  When 
he  got  up  from  the  floor  of  the  stage  and  said : 

"  '  Let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep  ' 

the  audience  rose  as  one  man,  hardly  daring  to  breathe. 

And    now    watch    carefully    how    Kostromsky  takes 

that  very  scene." 

"  You're  very  hard  to  please,  Valerie  Nikolaitch." 
"  Not  at  all.     But  you  watch  him  ;   to  tell  you  the 

truth,  I  can't.     Do  you  think  I  am  watching  him  ?  " 
"Well,  who  then?  " 
"  Ah,  brother,  look  at  Ophelia.     There's  an  actress 

for  you  !  " 

"  But  Valerie  Nikolaitch,  she's  only  a  student." 

"  Idiot  !     Don't    mind    that.     You    didn't    notice 

how  she  said  the  words  : 

"  '  He  spoke  to  me  of  l~ve,  but  was  so  tender. 
So  timid,  and  so  reverent.'  ^ 

Of  course  you  didn't.  And  I've  been  nearly  thirty 
years  on  the  stage,  and  I  tell  you  I've  never  heard 
anything  like  it.  She's  got  talent.  You  mark  my 
words,  in  the  fourth  act  she'll  have  such  a  success 
that  your  Kostromsky  will  be  in  a  fury.  You 
see  !  " 

1  Perhaps — "  He     hath,    my    lord,    of    late    made    many 
tenders 
Of  his  afiection  to  me." 

The  Russian  lines  do  not  clearly  correspond  to  any  of  Shake- 
speare's.— [Ed.] 


HAMLET  83 

V 

The  play  went  on.  The  old  man's  prophecy  was 
abundantly  fulfilled.  The  enthusiasm  of  Kostromsky 
only  lasted  out  the  first  act.  It  could  not  be  roused 
again  by  repeated  calls  before  the  curtain,  by  applause, 
or  by  the  gaze  of  his  enormous  crowd  of  admirers, 
who  thronged  into  the  wings  to  look  at  him  with  gentle 
reverence.  There  now  remained  in  him  only  the 
very  smallest  store  of  that  energy  and  feeling  which 
he  had  expended  with  such  royal  generosity  three 
years  ago  on  every  act. 

He  had  wasted  his  now  insignificant  store  in 
the  first  act,  when  he  had  been  intoxicated  by 
the  loud  cries  of  welcome  and  applause  from  the 
public.  His  will  was  weakened,  his  nerves  unbraced, 
and  not  even  increased  doses  of  alcohol  could 
revive  him.  The  imperceptible  ties  which  had 
connected  him  with  his  audience  at  first  were 
gradually  weakening,  and,  though  the  applause  at 
the  end  of  the  second  act  was  as  sincere  as  at  the 
end  of  the  first,  yet  it  was  clear  that  the  people 
were  applauding,  not  him,  but  the  charm  of  his  name 
and  fame. 

Meanwhile,  each  time  she  appeared  on  the  stage, 
Ophelia  —  Yureva  —  progressed  in  favour.  This 
hitherto  unnoticed  girl,  who  had  previously  played 
only  very  minor  parts,  was  now,  as  it  were, 
working  a  miracle.  She  seemed  a  living  impersona- 
tion of  the  real  daughter  of  Polonius,  a  gentle, 
tender,  obedient  daughter,  with  deep  hidden  feeling 
and  great  love  in  her  soul,  empoisoned  by  the  venom 
of  grief. 

The  audience    did    not    yet  applaud  Yureva,   but 

G  2 


84  A  SLAV  SOUL 

they  watched  her,  and  whenever  she  came  on  the 
stage  the  whole  theatre  calmed  down  to  attention. 
She  herself  had  no  suspicion  that  she  was  in  competition 
with  the  great  actor,  and  taking  from  him  attention 
and  success,  and  even  the  spectators  themselves  were 
unconscious  of  the  struggle. 

The  third  act  was  fatal  for  Kostromsky.  His 
appearance  in  it  was  preceded  by  the  short  scene  in 
which  the  king  and  Polonius  agree  to  hide  themselves 
and  listen  to  the  conversation  between  Hamlet  and 
Ophelia,  in  order  to  judge  of  the  real  reason  of  the 
prince's  madness.  Kostromsky  came  out  from  the 
wings  with  slow  steps,  his  hands  crossed  upon  his 
breast,  his  head  bent  low,  his  stockings  unfastened 
and  the  right  one  coming  down. 

"  To  be  or  not  to  be — that  is  the  question." 

He  spoke  almost  inaudibly,  all  overborne  by  serious 
thought,  and  did  not  notice  Ophelia,  who  sat  at  the 
back  of  the  stage  with  an  open  book  on  her  knee. 

This  famous  soliloquy  had  always  been  one  of 
Kostromsky's  show  places.  Some  years  ago,  in  this 
very  town  and  this  very  theatre,  after  he  had  finished 
this  speech  by  his  invocation  to  Ophelia,  there  had 
been  for  a  moment  that  strange  and  marvellous 
silence  which  speaks  more  eloquently  than  the  noisiest 
applause.  And  then  everyone  in  the  theatre  had 
gone  into  an  ecstasy  of  applause,  from  the  humblest 
person  in  the  back  row  of  the  gallery  to  the  exquisites 
in  the  private  boxes. 

Alas,  now  both  Kostromsky  himself  and  his  audience 
remained  cold  and  unmoved,  though  he  was  not  yet 
conscious  of  it. 


HAMLET  85 

"  Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution. 
Is  sickHed  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment. 
With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action," 

he  went  on,  gesticulating  and  changing  his  intonation 

from  old  memory.     And  he  thought  to  himself  that 

when  he  saw  Ophelia  he  would  go  down  on  his  knees 

in  front  of  her  and  say  the  final  words  of  his  speech, 

and  that  the  audience  would  weep  and  cry  out  with  a 

sweet  foolishness. 

And  there  was  Ophelia.     He  turned  to  the  audience 

with  a  cautious  warning  "  Soft  you,  now  !  "  and  then 

walking  swiftly  across  the  stage  he  knelt  down  and 

exclaimed  : 

"  —  Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 
Be  all  my  sins  remember'd," 

and  then  got  up  immediately,  expecting  a  burst  of 
applause. 

But  there  was  no  applause.  The  public  were 
puzzled,  quite  unmoved,  and  all  their  attention  was 
turned  on  Ophelia. 

For  some  seconds  he  could  think  of  nothing  ;  it  was 
only  when  he  heard  at  his  side  a  gentle  girl's  voice 
asking,  "  Prince,  are  you  well  ?  " — a  voice  which 
trembled  with  the  tears  of  sorrow  for  a  love  destroyed — 
that,  in  a  momentary  flash,  he  understood  all. 

It  was  a  moment  of  awful  enlightenment.  Kostrom- 
sky  recognised  it  clearly  and  mercilessly — the  indif- 
ference of  the  public  ;  his  own  irrevocable  past ;  the 
certainty  of  the  near  approach  of  the  end  to  his  noisy 
but  short-hved  fame. 

Oh,  with  what  hatred  did  he  look  upon  this  girl, 


86  A  SLAV  SOUL 

so  graceful,  beautiful,  innocent,  and  —  tormenting 
thought — so  full  of  talent.  He  would  have  liked  to 
throw  himself  upon  her,  beat  her,  throw  her  on  the 
ground  and  stamp  with  his  feet  upon  that  delicate 
face,  with  its  large  dark  eyes  looking  up  at  him  with 
love  and  pity.  But  he  restrained  himself,  and  answered 
in  lowered  tones  : 

"  I  humbly  thank  you  ;  well,  well,  well." 

After  this  scene  Kostromsky  was  recalled,  but  he 
heard,  much  louder  than  his  own  name,  the  shouts 
from  the  gallery,  full  with  students,  for  Yureva, 
who,  however,  refused  to  appear, 

VI 

The  strolling  players  were  playing  "  The  Murder 
of  Gonzago."  Kostromsky  was  half  sitting,  half 
lying  on  the  floor  opposite  to  the  court,  his  head  on 
Ophelia's  knees.  Suddenly  he  turned  his  face  upward 
to  her,  and  giving  forth  an  overwhelming  odour  of 
spirit,  whispered  in  drunken  tones  : 

"  Listen,  madam.     What's  your  name  ?     Listen  !  " 

She  bent  down  a  little  towards  him,  and  said  in  an 
answering  whisper  : 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  What  pretty  feet  you  have  !  "  said  he.  "  Listen  ! 
You  must  be  pretty  .  .  .  everywhere." 

Yureva  turned  away  her  face  in  silence. 

"  I  mean  it,  by  heaven  !  "  Kostromsky  went  on, 
nothing  daunted.  "  No  doubt  you  have  a  lover 
here,  haven't  you  ?  " 

She  made  no  reply. 

Kostromsky   wanted   to   insult   her   still   more,   to 


HAMLET  87 

hurt  her,  and  her  silence  was  a  new  irritation  to 
him. 

"  You  have  ?  Oh,  that's  very  very  fooHsh  of  you. 
Such  a  face  as  yours  is  .  ,  .  is  your  whole  capital.  .  .  . 
You  will  pardon  my  frankness,  but  you're  no  actress. 
What  are  you  doing  on  the  stage  ?  " 

Fortunately,  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  take  part 
in  the  acting.  Yureva  was  left  in  peace,  and  she 
moved  a  little  away  from  him.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  In  Kostromsky's  face  she  had  seen  a  spiteful 
and  merciless  enemy. 

But  Kostromsky  became  less  powerful  in  each 
scene,  and  when  the  act  was  finished  there  was  very 
slight  applause  to  gratify  him.  But  no  one  else  was 
clapped. 

VII 

The  fourth  act  commenced.  As  soon  as  Ophelia 
came  on  to  the  stage  in  her  white  dress,  adorned 
with  flowers  and  straw,  her  eyes  wide  open  and  staring, 
a  confused  murmur  ran  through  the  audience,  and 
was  followed  by  an  almost  painful  silence. 

And  when  Ophelia  sang  her  little  songs  about  her 

dear  love,  in  gentle,  naive  tones,  there  was  a  strange 

breathing  among  the  audience  as  if  a  deep  and  general 

sigh  had  burst  from  a  thousand  breasts  : 

"  How  should  I  your  true  love  know. 
From  another  one  ? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff, 
And  his  sandal  shoon." 

"  Oh,  poor  Opheha  1  What  are  you  singing  ?  "  asked 
the  queen  sympathetically. 

The  witless  eyes  of  Ophelia  were  turned  on  the 
queen  in  wonder,  as  if  she  had  not  noticed  her  before. 


88  A  SLAV  SOUL 

"  What  am  I  singing  ?  "  she  asked  in  astonishment. 

"  Listen  to  my  song  : 

"  '  He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady. 
He  is  dead  and  gone  ; 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf. 
At  his  heels  a  stone.'  " 

No  one  in  the  theatre  could  look  on  with  indifference, 
all  were  in  the  grip  of  a  common  feeling,  all  sat  as  if 
enchanted,  never  moving  their  eyes  from  the  stage. 

But  more  persistently,  and  more  eagerly  than  anyone 
else,  Kostromsky  stood  in  the  wings  and  watched 
her  every  movement.  In  his  soul,  his  sick  and  proud 
soul,  which  had  never  known  restraint  or  limit  to 
its  own  desires  and  passions,  there  now  blazed  a 
terrible  and  intolerable  hatred.  He  felt  that  this 
poor  and  modest  girl-student  had  definitely  snatched 
from  his  hands  the  evening's  success.  His  drunken- 
ness had,  as  it  were,  quite  gone  out  of  his  head.  He 
did  not  yet  know  how  this  envious  spite  which  boiled 
in  him  could  expend  itself,  but  he  awaited  impatiently 
the  time  when  Ophelia  would  come  off  the  stage, 

"  I  hope  all  will  be  well.  We  must  be  patient ;  but  I  cannot 
choose  but  weep  to  think  they  should  lay  him  in  the  cold 
ground," 

he  heard  Ophelia  say,  in  a    voice  choked   with    the 

madness  of  grief. 

"  My  brother  shall  know  of  it,  and  so  I  thank  you  for  your 
good  counsel.  Come,  my  coach  1  Good-night,  ladies ;  good- 
night, sweet  ladies;  good-night,  good-night." 

Yureva  came  out  in  the  wings,  agitated,  breathing 
deeply,  pale  even  under  her  make-up.  She  was 
followed  by  deafening  cries  from  the  audience.  In 
the  doorway  she  stumbled  up  against  Kostromsky. 
He  purposely  made  no  way  for  her,  but  she,  even 


HAMLET  89 

when  her  shoulder  brushed  against  his,  did  not  notice 
him,  so  excited  was  she  by  her  acting  and  the  rapturous 
applause  of  the  public. 

"  Yureva  !     Yureva  !     Brav-0-0  !  " 

She  went  back  and  bowed. 

As  she  returned  again  to  the  wings  she  again  stumbled 
against  Kostromsky,  who  would  not  allow  her  to  pass. 
Yureva  looked  at  him  with  a  terrified  glance,  and 
said  timidly  : 

"  Please  allow  me  to  pass  !  " 

"  Be  more  careful  please,  young  person  !  "  answered 
he,  with  maUcious  haughtiness.  "  If  you  are 
applauded  by  a  crowd  of  such  idiots,  it  doesn't  mean 
you  can  push  into  people  with  impunity."  And 
seeing  her  silent  and  frightened,  he  became  still  more 
infuriated,  and  taking  her  roughly  by  the  arm  he  pushed 
her  on  one  side  and  cried  out  : 

"  Yes,  you  can  pass,  devil  take  you,  blockhead 
that  you  are  !  " 

VIII 

When  Kostromsky  had  quieted  down  a  httle 
after  this  rude  outburst  of  temper,  he  at  once  became 
weaker,  slacker  and  more  drunken  than  before ; 
he  even  forgot  that  the  play  had  not  yet  finished. 
He  went  into  his  dressing-room,  slowly  undressed, 
and  began  lazily  to  rub  the  paint  from  his  face  with 
vasehne. 

The  manager,  puzzled  by  his  long  absence,  ran 
into  his  room  at  last  and  stared  in  amazement. 

"  Alexander  Yevgrafitch  !  Please  !  What  are  you 
doing  ?     It's  time  for  you  to  go  on  !  " 

"  Go    away,    go     away !  "    muttered    Kostromsky 


90  A  SLAV  SOUL 

tearfully,  speaking  through  his  nose,  and  wiping  his 
face  with  the  towel.  "  Lve  finished  everything  .  .  . 
go  away  and  leave  me  in  peace  ! ' ' 

"  What  d'you  mean,  go  away  ?  Have  you  gone 
out  of  your  mind  ?     The  audience  is  waiting  !  " 

"  Leave  me  alone  !  "  cried  Kostromsky. 

The  manager  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  out. 
In  a  few  moments  the  curtain  was  raised,  and  the 
public,  having  been  informed  of  Kostromsky's  sudden 
illness,  began  to  disperse  slowly  and  silently  as  if 
they  were  going  away  from  a  funeral. 

They  had  indeed  been  present  at  the  funeral  of 
a  great  and  original  talent,  and  Kostromsky  was  right 
when  he  said  that  he  had  "  finished."  He  had  locked 
the  door,  and  sat  by  himself  in  front  of  the  mirror 
in  his  dressing-room  between  two  gas  burners,  the 
flames  of  which  flared  with  a  slight  noise.  From  old 
habit  he  was  carefully  wiping  his  face,  all  smeared 
over  with  drunken  but  bitter  tears.  His  mind 
recalled,  as  through  a  mist,  the  long  line  of  splendid 
triumphs  which  had  accompanied  the  first  years  of 
his  career.  Wreaths  .  ,  .  bouquets  .  .  .  thousands  of 
presents  .  .  .  the  eternal  raptures  of  the  crowd  .  .  , 
the  flattery  of  newspapers  .  .  .  the  envy  of  his  com- 
panions .  .  .  the  fabulous  benefits  .  .  .  the  adora- 
tion of  the  most  beautiful  of  women.  .  .  .  Was  it 
possible  that  all  this  was  past  ?  Could  his  talent 
really  have  gone — vanished  ?  Perhaps  it  had  left 
him  long  ago,  two  or  three  years  back  !  And  he, 
Kostromsky,  what  was  he  now  ?  A  theme  for  dirty 
theatrical  gossip  ;  an  object  of  general  mockery  and 
ill-will ;  a  man  who  had  alienated  all  his  friends  by 
his   unfeehng   narrow-mindedness,  his  selfishness,  his 


HAMLET  91 

impatience,  his  unbridled  arrogance.  .  .  .  Yes,  it 
was  all  past  ! 

"  And  if  the  Almighty " — the  well-known  lines 
flashed  into  his  memory — "  had  not  fixed  his  canon 
'gainst  self-slaughter.  ,  ,  .  Oh,  my  God,  my  God  !  " 
The  burning,  helpless  tears  trickled  down  his  erstwhile 
beautiful  face  and  mingled  with  the  colours  of  the 
paint. 

All  the  other  actors  had  left  the  theatre  when 
Kostromsky  came  out  of  his  dressing-room.  It  was 
almost  dark  on  the  stage.  Some  workmen  were 
wandering  about,  removing  the  last  decorations. 
He  walked  along  gropingly,  with  quiet  footfalls, 
avoiding  the  heaps  of  property  rubbish  which  were 
scattered  everywhere  about,  and  making  his  way 
towards  the  street. 

Suddenly  he  was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  the 
restrained  sobbing  of  a  woman. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  he  cried,  going  into  a  corner, 
with  an  undefined  impulse  of  pity. 

The  dark  figure  made  no  answer  ;  the  sobs  increased. 

"  Who's  crying  there  ?  "  he  asked  again,  in  fear, 
and  at  once  recognised  that  it  was  Yureva  who  was 
sobbing  there. 

The  girl  was  weeping,  her  thin  shoulders  heaving 
with  convulsive  shudders. 

It  was  strange.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Kostromsky's  hard  heart  suddenly  overflowed  with 
a  deep  pity  for  this  unprotected  girl,  whom  he  had  so 
unjustifiably  insulted.  He  placed  his  hand  on  her 
head  and  began  to  speak  to  her  in  an  impressive 
and  affectionate  voice,  quite  naturally  and  unaffectedly. 

"  My  child  !     I  was  dreadfully  rude  to  you  to-day. 


92  A   SLAV  SOUL 

I  won't  ask  your  forgiveness  ;  I  know  I  could  never 
atone  for  your  tears.  But  if  you  could  have  known 
what  was  happening  in  my  soul,  perhaps  you  would 
forgive  me  and  be  sorry  for  me.  .  .  .  To-day,  only 
to-day,  I  have  understood  that  I  have  outlived  my 
fame.  What  grief  is  there  to  compare  with  that  ? 
What,  in  comparison  with  that,  would  mean  the  loss 
of  a  mother,  of  a  beloved  child,  of  a  lover  ?  We 
artists  live  by  terrible  enjoyments  ;  we  live  and  feel 
for  those  hundreds  and  thousands  of  people  who  come 
to  look  at  us.  Do  you  know  .  .  .  oh,  you  must  under- 
stand that  I'm  not  showing  off,  I'm  speaking  quite 
simply  to  you.  .  .  .  Yes.  Do  you  know  that  for  the 
last  five  years  there's  not  been  an  actor  in  the  world 
whose  name  was  greater  than  mine  ?  Crowds  have 
lain  at  my  feet,  at  the  feet  of  an  illiterate  draper's 
assistant.  And  suddenly,  in  one  moment,  I've  fallen 
headlong  from  those  marvellous  heights.  ..."  He 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.     "  It's  terrible  !  " 

Yureva  had  stopped  weeping,  and  was  looking  at 
Kostromsky  with  deep  compassion. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  he  went  on,  taking  her  cold 
hands  in  his.  "  You  have  a  great  and  undoubted 
talent.  Keep  on  the  stage.  I  won't  talk  to  you 
about  such  trivialities  as  the  envy  and  intrigues  of 
those  who  cannot  act,  or  about  the  equivocal  protection 
afforded  by  patrons  of  dramatic  art,  or  about  the 
gossip  of  that  marsh  which  we  call  Society.  All  these 
are  trifles,  and  not  to  be  compared  with  those 
stupendous  joys  which  a  contemptible  but  adoring 
crowd  can  give  to  us.  But " — Kostromsky 's  voice 
trembled  nervously — "  but  do  not  outlive  your  fame. 
Leave   the  stage  directly  you  feel   that   the  sacred 


HAMLET  93 

flame  in  you  is  burning  low.  Do  not  wait,  my  child, 
for  the  public  to  drive  you  away." 

And  turning  quickly  away  from  Yureva,  who  was 
trying  to  say  something  and  even  holding  out  her 
hands  to  him,  he  hurriedly  walked  off  the  stage. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Alexander  Yevgrafitch,"  the 
manager  called  after  him  as  he  went  out  into  the 
street,  "  come  into  the  oflfice  for  your  money." 

"  Get  away  !  "  said  Kostromsky,  waving  his  hand, 
in  vexation,  irritably.  "  I  have  finished.  I  have 
finished  with  it  all." 


VII 
MECHANICAL   JUSTICE 

The  large  hall  of  the  principal  club  of  one  of  our 
provincial  towns  was  packed  with  people.  Every 
box,  every  seat  in  pit  and  stalls  was  taken,  and  in 
spite  of  the  excitement  the  public  was  so  attentive 
and  quiet  that,  when  the  lecturer  stopped  to  take  a 
mouthful  of  water,  everyone  could  hear  a  solitary 
belated  fly  buzzing  at  one  of  the  windows. 

Amongst  the  bright  dresses  of  the  ladies,  white 
and  pink  and  blue,  amongst  their  bare  shoulders 
and  gentle  faces  shone  smart  uniforms,  dress  coats, 
and  golden  epaulettes  in  plenty. 

The  lecturer,  who  was  clad  in  the  uniform  of  the 
Department  of  Education — a  tall  man  whose  yellow 
face  seemed  to  be  made  up  of  a  black  beard  only  and 
glimmering  black  spectacles — stood  at  the  front  of 
the  platform  resting  his  hand  on  a  table. 

But  the  attentive  eyes  of  the  audience  were  directed, 
not  so  much  on  him  as  on  a  strange,  high,  massive- 
looking  contrivance  which  stood  beside  him,  a  grey 
pyramid  covered  with  canvas,  broad  at  its  base, 
pointed  at  the  top. 

Having  quenched  his  thirst,  the  lecturer  went  on  : 

"  Let  me  briefly  sum  up.  What  do  we  see,  ladies 
and  gentlemen  ?  We  see  that  the  encouraging  system 
of  marks,  prizes,  distinctions,  leads  to  jealousy,  pride 


MECHANICAL   JUSTICE  95 

and  dissatisfaction.  Pedagogic  suggestion  fails  at 
last  through  repetition.  Standing  culprits  in  the 
comer,  on  the  form,  under  the  clock,  making  them 
kneel,  is  often  quite  ineffectual  as  an  example,  and  the 
victim  is  sometimes  the  object  of  mirth.  Shutting 
in  a  cell  is  positively  harmful,  quite  apart  from  the 
fact  that  it  uses  up  the  pupil's  time  without  profit. 
Forced  work,  on  the  other  hand,  robs  the  work  of 
its  true  value.  Punishment  by  hunger  affects  the 
brain  injuriously.  The  stopping  of  hohdays  causes 
mahce  in  the  mind  of  pupils,  and  often  evokes  the 
dissatisfaction  of  parents.  What  remains  ?  Expul- 
sion of  the  dull  or  mischievous  child  from  the  school — 
as  advised  in  Holy  Writ — the  cutting  off  of  the  offending 
member  lest,  through  him,  the  whole  body  of  the 
school  be  infected.  Yes,  alas !  such  a  measure  is, 
I  admit,  inevitable  on  certain  occasions  now,  as 
inevitable  as  is  capital  punishment,  I  regret  to  say, 
even  in  the  best  of  states.  But  before  resorting  to 
this  last  irreparable  means,  let  us  see  what  else  there 
may  be.  .  .  ." 

"  And  flogging  !  "  cried  a  deep  bass  voice  from 
the  front  row  of  the  stalls.  It  was  the  governor  of 
the  town  fortress,  a  deaf  old  man,  under  whose  chair 
a  pug-dog  growled  angrily  and  hoarsely.  The  governor 
was  a  familiar  figure  about  town  with  his  stick,  ear 
trumpet,  and  old  panting  pug-dog. 

The  lecturer  bowed,  showing  his  teeth  pleasantly. 

"  I  did  not  intend  to  express  myself  as  shortly  and 
precisely,  but  in  essence  his  Excellency  has  guessed 
my  thought.  Yes,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  there  is 
one  good  old  Russian  method  of  which  we  have 
not  yet  spoken — corporal  punishment.     Yes,  corporal 


96  A  SLAV  SOUL 

punishment  is  part  and  parcel  of  the  very  soul  of  the 
great  Russian  people,  of  its  mighty  national  sense, 
its  patriotism  and  deep  faith  in  Providence.  Even 
the  apostle  said :  '  Whom  the  Lord  loveth  He 
chasteneth.'  The  unforgotten  monument  of  mediaeval 
culture — Domostroi — enjoins  the  same  with  paternal 
firmness.  Let  us  call  to  mind  our  inspired  Tsar- 
educator,  Peter  the  Great,  with  his  famous  cudgel. 
Let  us  call  to  mind  the  speech  of  our  immortal  Pushkin  : 

"  '  Our  fathers,  the  further  back  you  go. 
The  more  the  cudgels  they  used  up.' 

Finally,  let  us  call  to  mind  our  wonderful  Gogol, 
who  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  simple,  unlearned  serving - 
man  the  words :  '  The  peasant  must  be  beaten,  for 
the  peasant  is  being  spoiled.'  Yes,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, I  boldly  affirm  that  punishment  with  rods  upon 
the  body  goes  like  a  red  thread  throughout  the  whole 
immense  course  of  Russian  history,  and  takes  its 
rise  from  the  very  depths  of  primitive  Russian  life. 

"  Thus  delving  in  thought  into  the  past,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  I  appear  a  conservative,  yet  I  go  forward 
with  outstretched  hands  to  meet  the  most  liberal  of 
humanitarians.  I  freely  allow,  loudly  confess,  that 
corporal  punishment,  in  the  way  in  which  it  has  been 
practised  until  now,  has  much  in  it  that  is  insulting 
for  the  person  being  chastised  as  well  as  humiliating 
for  the  person  chastising.  The  personal  confrontment 
of  the  two  men  inevitably  awakens  hate,  fear,  irritation, 
revengefulness,  contempt,  and  what  is  more,  a  com- 
petitive stubbornness  in  the  repetition  of  crime  and 
punishment.  So  you  no  doubt  imagine  that  I  renounce 
corporal  punishment.  Yes,  I  do  renounce  it,  though 
only  to  introduce  it  anew,  replacing  man  by  a  machine. 


MECHANICAL   JUSTICE  97 

After  the  labours,  thoughts  and  experiments  of  many 
years,  I  have  at  last  worked  out  a  scheme  of  mechanical 
justice,  and  have  realised  it  in  a  machine.  Whether 
I  have  been  successful  or  not  I  shall  in  a  minute 
leave  this  most  respected  audience  to  judge." 

The  lecturer  nodded  towards  the  wings  of  the  stage. 
A  fine-looking  attendant  came  forward  and  took  off 
the  canvas  cover  from  the  strange  object  standing 
at  the  foothghts.  To  the  eyes  of  those  present,  the 
bright  gleaming  machine  was  rather  like  an  automatic 
weighing-machine,  though  it  was  obviously  more 
complex  and  was  much  larger.  There  was  a  murmur 
of  astonishment  among  the  audience  in  the  hall. 

The  lecturer  extended  his  hand,  and  pointed  to  the 
apparatus. 

"  There  is  my  offspring,"  said  he  in  an  agitated 
voice.  "  There  is  an  apparatus  which  may  fairly 
be  called  the  instrument  of  mechanical  justice.  The 
construction  is  uncommonly  simple,  and  in  price  it 
would  be  within  the  reach  of  even  a  modest  village 
school.  Pray  consider  its  construction.  In  the  first 
place  you  remark  the  horizontal  platform  on  springs, 
and  the  wooden  platform  leading  to  it.  On  the 
platform  is  placed  a  narrow  chair,  the  back  of  which 
has  also  a  powerful  spring  and  is  covered  with  soft 
leather.  Under  the  chair,  as  you  see,  is  a  system 
of  crescent-shaped  levers  turning  on  a  hinge.  Pro- 
portionately with  the  pressure  on  the  springs  of  the 
chair  and  platform  these  levers,  departing  from  their 
equipoise,  describe  half  circles,  and  close  in  pairs  at 
a  height  of  from  five  to  eighteen  vershoks^  above  the 
level  of  the  chair — varying  with  the  force  of  pressure. 
1  A  vershok  is  ^  of  an  arshin,  i.e.,  if  inches. 

S.S.  H 


98  A  SLAV  SOUL 

Behind  the  chair  rises  a  vertical  cast-iron  pillar,  with 
a  cross  bar.  Within  the  pillar  is  contained  a  powerful 
mechanism  resembling  that  of  a  watch,  having  a 
i6o-lb.  balance  and  a  spiral  spring.  On  the  side  of  the 
column  observe  a  little  door,  that  is  for  cleaning  or 
mending  the  mechanism.  This  door  has  only  two 
keys,  and  I  ask  you  to  note,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
that  these  keys  are  kept,  one  by  the  chief  district 
inspector  of  mechanical  flogging  machines,  and  the 
other  by  the  head  master  of  the  school.  So  this 
apparatus,  once  brought  into  action,  cannot  be  stopped 
until  it  has  completed  the  punishment  intended — 
except,  of  course,  in  the  eventuality  of  its  being 
forcibly  broken,  which  is  a  hardly  hkely  possibihty 
seeing  the  simplicity  and  solidity  of  every  part  of  the 
machine. 

"  The  watch  mechanism,  once  set  going,  communi- 
cates with  a  little  horizontally-placed  axle.  The 
axle  has  eight  sockets  in  which  may  be  mounted 
eight  long  supple  bamboo  or  metal  rods.  When 
worn  out  these  can  be  replaced  by  new  ones.  It  must 
be  explained  also  that,  by  a  regulation  of  the  axle, 
the  force  of  the  strokes  may  be  varied. 

"  And  so  we  see  the  axle  in  motion,  and  moving 
with  it  the  eight  rods.  Each  rod  goes  downward 
perfectly  freely,  but  coming  upward  again  it  meets 
with  an  obstacle — the  cross-beam — and  meeting  it, 
bends  and  is  at  tension  from  its  point,  bulges  to  a 
half-circle,  and  then,  breaking  free,  deals  the  blow. 
Then,  since  the  position  of  the  cross-beam  can  be 
adjusted,  raised  or  lowered,  it  will  be  evident  that 
the  tension  of  the  bending  rods  can  be  increased  or 
decreased,  and  the  blow  given  with  a  greater  or  less 


MECHANICAL    JUSTICE  99 

degree  of  severity.  In  that  way  it  has  been  possible 
to  make  a  scale  of  severity  of  punishment  from  0  degrees 
to  24  degrees.  No.  o  is  when  the  cross-beam  is  at 
its  highest  point,  and  is  only  employed  when  the 
punishment  bears  a  merely  nominal,  or  shall  I  say, 
symbolical,  character.  By  the  time  we  come  to 
No.  6,  a  certain  amount  of  pain  has  become  notice- 
able. We  indicate  a  maximum  for  use  in  elementary 
schools,  that  would  be  up  to  No.  10  ;  in  secondary 
schools  up  to  15.  For  soldiers,  village  prisons,  and 
students,  the  limit  is  set  at  20  degrees,  and,  finally, 
for  houses  of  correction  and  workmen  on  strike,  the 
maximum  figure,  namely,  24. 

"  There,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  the  substance  of 
my  invention.  There  remain  the  details.  That  handle 
at  the  side,  like  the  handle  of  a  barrel  organ,  serves 
to  wind  up  the  spiral  spring  of  the  mechanism.  The 
arrow  here  in  this  slot  regulates  the  celerity  of  the 
strokes.  At  the  height  of  the  pillar,  in  a  little  glass 
case,  is  a  mechanical  meter  or  indicator.  This  enables 
one  to  check  the  accuracy  of  the  working  of  the 
machine,  and  is  also  useful  for  statistical  and  revision- 
ary  purposes.  In  view  of  this  latter  purpose,  the 
indicator  is  constructed  to  show  a  maximum  total 
of  60,000  strokes.  Finally,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
please  to  observe  something  in  the  nature  of  an  urn 
at  the  foot  of  the  pillar.  Into  this  are  thrown  metal 
coupons  with  numbers  on  them,  and  this  momentarily 
sets  the  whole  machine  in  action.  The  coupons  are  of 
various  weights  and  sizes.  The  smallest  is  about  the 
size  of  a  silver  penny, ^  and  effects  the  minimum 
punishment — five  strokes.     The  largest  is  about  the 

*  Five  copecks  silver — the  smallest  silver  coin  in  Russia. 

H  a 


100  A  SLAV   SOUL 

size  of  a  hundred-copeck  bit — a  rouble — and  effects  a 
punishment  of  just  one  hundred  strokes.  By  using 
various  combinations  of  metal  coupons  you  can 
effect  a  punishment  of  any  number  of  strokes  in  a 
multiple  of  five,  from  five  to  three  hundred  and  fifty. 
But  " — and  here  the  lecturer  smiled  modestly — "  but 
we  should  not  consider  that  we  had  completely  solved 
our  problem  if  it  were  necessary  to  stop  at  that  limited 
figure. 

"  I  will  ask  you,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  to  note  the 
figure  at  which  the  indicator  at  present  stands,  and 
that  which  it  reaches  after  the  punishment  has  been 
effected.  What  is  more,  the  respected  public  will 
observe  that,  up  to  the  moment  when  the  coupons 
are  thrown  into  the  urn,  there  is  no  danger  whatever 
in  standing  on  the  platform. 

"  And  so  .  .  .  the  indicator  shows  2900.  Con- 
sequently, having  thrown  in  all  the  coupons,  the 
pointer  will  show,  at  the  end  of  the  execution  .  .  . 
3250.  ...  I  fancy  I  make  no  mistake  ! 

"  And  it  will  be  quite  sufficient  to  throw  into  the 
urn  anything  round,  of  whatever  size,  and  the  machine 
will  go  on  to  infinity,  if  you  will,  or,  if  not  to  infinity, 
to  780  or  800,  at  which  point  the  spring  would  have 
run  down  and  the  machine  need  re-winding.  What 
I  had  in  view  in  using  these  small  coupons  was  that 
they  might  commonly  be  replaced  by  coins,  and  each 
mechanical  self-fiogger  has  a  comparative  table  of 
the  stroke  values  of  copper,  silver  and  gold  money. 
Observe  the  table  here  at  the  side  of  the  main  pillar. 

"  It  seems  I  have  finished.  .  .  .  There  remain 
just  a  few  particulars  concerning  the  construction  of 
the  revolving  platform,  the  swinging  chair,  and  the 


MECHANICAL   JUSTICE  loi 

crescent-shaped  levers.  But  as  it  is  a  trifle  complicated, 
I  will  ask  the  respected  public  to  watch  the  machine 
in  action,  and  I  shall  now  have  the  honour  to  give  a 
demonstration. 

"  The  whole  procedure  of  punishment  consists  in 
the  following.  First  of  all,  having  thoroughly  sifted 
and  got  to  the  bottom  of  the  motives  of  the  crime, 
we  fix  the  extent  of  the  punishment,  that  is,  the  num- 
ber of  strokes,  the  celerity  with  which  they  shall  be 
given,  and  the  force  and,  in  some  cases,  the  material  of 
the  rods.  Then  we  send  a  note  to  the  man  in  charge  of 
the  machine,  or  communicate  with  him  by  telephone. 
He  puts  the  machine  in  readiness  and  then  goes  away. 
Observe,  the  man  goes,  the  machine  remains  alone, 
the  impartial,  unwavering,  calm  and  just  machine. 

"  In  a  minute  I  shall  come  to  the  experiment. 
Instead  of  a  human  offender  we  have,  on  this  occasion, 
a  leather  mannikin.  In  order  to  show  the  machine 
at  its  best  we  will  imagine  that  we  have  before  us  a 
criminal  of  the  most  stubborn  type.  '  Officer ! '  "  cried 
the  lecturer  to  someone  behind  the  scenes.  "  '  Prepare 
the  machine,  force  24,  minimum  celerity.'  " 

In  a  tense  silence  the  audience  watched  the  attendant 
wind  the  handle,  push  down  the  cross-beam,  turn 
round  the  celerity  arrow,  and  then  disappear  behind 
the  scenes  again, 

"  Now  ah  is  in  order,"  the  lecturer  went  on,  "  and 
the  room  in  which  the  flogging  machine  stands  is 
quite  empty.  There  only  remains  to  call  up  the  man 
who  is  to  be  punished,  explain  to  him  the  extent  of 
his  guilt  and  the  degree  of  his  punishment,  and  he 
himself — remark,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  himself ! — 
takes  from  the  box  the  corresponding  coupon.     Of 


102  A  SLAV  SOUL 

course,  it  might  be  arranged  that  he,  there  and  then, 
drops  the  coupon  through  a  slot  in  the  table  and  lets 
it  fall  into  the  urn  ;   that  is  a  mere  detail. 

"  From  that  moment  the  offender  is  entirely  in  the 
hands  of  the  machine.  He  goes  to  the  dressing-room, 
he  opens  the  door,  stands  on  the  platform,  throws  the 
coupon  or  coupons  into  the  urn,  and  .  .  .  done  ! 
The  door  shuts  mechanically  after  him,  and  cannot 
be  re-opened.  He  may  stand  a  moment,  hesitating, 
on  the  brink,  but  in  the  end  he  simply  must  throw 
the  coupons  in.  For,  ladies  and  gentlemen " — 
exclaimed  the  pedagogue  with  a  triumphant  laugh — 
"  for  the  machine  is  so  constructed  that  the  longer 
he  hesitates  the  greater  becomes  the  punishment, 
the  number  of  strokes  increasing  in  a  ratio  of  from 
five  to  thirty  per  minute  according  to  the  weight  of 
the  person  hesitating.  .  .  .  However,  once  the  offender 
is  off,  he  is  caught  by  the  machine  at  three  points, 
neck,  waist  and  feet,  and  the  chair  holds  him.  All 
this  is  accomplished  literally  in  one  moment.  The 
next  moment  sounds  the  first  stroke,  and  nothing 
can  stop  the  action  of  the  machine,  nor  weaken  the 
blows,  nor  increase  or  diminish  the  celerity,  until 
that  moment  when  justice  has  been  accomplished. 
It  would  be  physically  impossible,  not  having  the  key. 

"  Officer  !     Bring  in  the  mannikin  ! 

"  Will  the  esteemed  audience  kindly  indicate  the 
number  of  the  strokes.  .  .  .  Just  a  number,  please  .  .  . 
three  figures  if  you  wish,  but  not  more  than  350. 
Please.  ..." 

"  Five  hundred,"  shouted  the  governor  of  the 
fortress. 

"  Reff,"  barked  the  dog  under  his  chair. 


MECHANICAL   JUSTICE  103 

"  Five  hundred  is  too  many,"  gently  objected  the 
lecturer,  "  but  to  go  as  far  as  we  can  towards  meeting 
his  Excellency's  wish  let  us  say  350.  We  throw  into 
the  urn  all  the  coupons." 

Whilst  he  was  speaking,  the  attendant  brought 
in  under  his  arm  a  monstrous-looking  leathern  man- 
nikin,  and  stood  it  on  the  floor,  holding  it  up  from 
behind.  There  was  something  suggestive  and  ridi- 
culous in  the  crooked  legs,  outstretched  arms,  and 
forward-hanging  head  of  this  leathern  dummy. 

Standing  on  the  platform  of  the  machine,  the 
lecturer  continued  : 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  one  last  word.  I  do  not 
doubt  that  my  mechanical  self-flogger  will  be  most 
widely  used.  Slowly  but  surely  it  will  find  its  way 
into  all  schools,  colleges  and  seminaries.  It  will  be 
introduced  in  the  army  and  navy,  in  the  village,  in 
miUtary  and  civil  prisons,  in  poHce  stations  and  for 
fire-brigades,  and  in  all  truly  Russian  families. 

"  The  coupons  are  inevitably  replaced  by  coins, 
and  in  that  way  not  only  is  the  cost  of  the  machine 
redeemed,  but  a  fund  is  commenced  which  can  be 
used  for  charitable  and  educative  ends.  Our  eternal 
financial  troubles  will  pass,  for,  by  the  aid  of  this 
machine,  the  peasant  will  be  forced  to  pay  his  taxes. 
Sin  will  disappear,  crime,  laziness,  slovenliness,  and 
in  their  stead  will  flourish  industry,  temperance, 
sobriety  and  thrift. 

"It  is  difficult  to  probe  further  the  possible  future 
of  this  machine.  Did  Gutenberg  foresee  the  contribu- 
tion which  book-printing  was  going  to  make  to  the 
history  of  human  progress  when  he  made  his  first 
naive  wooden  printing-press  ?     But  I  am,  however, 


104  A  SLAV  SOUL 

far  from  airing  a  foolish  self-conceit  in  your  eyes, 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  The  bare  idea  belongs  to  me. 
In  the  practical  details  of  the  invention  I  have  received 

most  material  help  from  Mr.  N ,  the  teacher  of 

physics  in  the  Fourth  Secondary  School  of  this  town, 

and  from  Mr.  X ,  the  well-known  engineer.    I  take 

the  opportunity  of  acknowledging  my  indebtedness." 

The  hall  thundered  with  applause.  Two  men 
in  the  front  of  the  staUs  stood  up  timidly  and 
awkwardly,  and  bowed  to  the  public. 

"  For  me  personally,"  continued  the  lecturer, 
"  there  has  been  the  greatest  satisfaction  to  consider 
the  good  I  was  doing  my  beloved  fatherland.  Here, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  a  token  which  I  have  lately 
received  fiom  the  governor  and  nobility  of  Kursk  — 
with  the  motto  :   Similia  similibus." 

He  detached  from  its  chain  and  held  aloft  an 
immense  antique  chronometer,  about  half  a  pound  in 
weight.  From  the  watch  dangled  also  a  massive 
gold  medal. 

"  I  have  finished,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  added 
the  lecturer  in  a  low  and  solemn  voice,  bowing  as  he 
spoke. 

But  the  applause  had  not  died  down  before  there 
happened  something  incredible,  appalHng.  The  chro- 
nometer suddenly  slipped  from  the  raised  hand  of 
the  pedagogue,  and  fell  with  a  metallic  clash  right 
into  the  urn. 

At  once  the  machine  began  to  hum  and  click.  The 
platform  inverted,  and  the  lecturer  was  suddenly 
hoist  with  his  own  petard.  His  coat-tails  waved  in 
the  air ;   there  was  a  sudden  thwack  and  a  wild  cry. 

2901,  indicated  the  mechanical  reckoner. 


MECHANICAL   JUSTICE  105 

It  is  difficult  to  describe  rapidly  and  definitely 
what  happened  in  the  meeting.  For  a  few  seconds 
everyone  was  turned  to  stone.  In  the  general  silence 
sounded  only  the  cries  of  the  victim,  the  whistling 
of  the  rods,  and  the  clicking  of  the  counting  machine. 
Then  suddenly  everyone  rushed  up  on  to  the  stage. 

"  For  the  love  of  the  Lord  !  "  cried  the  unfortunate 
man,  "  for  the  love  of  the  Lord  !  " 

But  it  was  impossible  to  help  him.  The  valorous 
physics  teacher  put  out  a  hand  to  catch  one  of  the 
rods  as  they  came,  but  drew  it  back  at  once,  and  the 
blood  on  his  fingers  was  visible  to  all.  No  efforts 
could  raise  the  cross-beam. 

"  The  key  !  Quick,  the  key  !  "  cried  the  pedagogue. 
"  In  my  trouser  pocket." 

The  devoted  attendant  dashed  in  to  search  his 
pockets,  with  difficulty  avoiding  blows  from  the 
machine.     But  the  key  was  not  to  be  found. 

2950,  2951,  2952,  2953,  clicked  the  counting  machine. 

"  Oh,  your  honour  !  "  cried  the  attendant  through 
his  tears.  "  Let  me  take  your  trousers  off.  They 
are  quite  new,  and  they  will  be  ruined.  .  .  .  Ladies 
can  turn  the  other  way." 

"  Go  to  blazes,  idiot  !  Oey,  0,0!...  Gentlemen, 
for  God's  sake  !  .  .  .  Oey,  oey  !  .  .  .  I  forgot.  .  .  . 
The  keys  are  in  my  overcoat.  .  .  .  Oey  !     Quickly  !  " 

They  ran  to  the  ante-room  for  his  overcoat.  But 
neither  was  there  any  key  there.  Evidently  the 
inventor  had  left  it  at  home.  Someone  was  sent 
to  fetch  it.     A  gentleman  present  offered  his  carriage. 

And  the  sharp  blows  registered  themselves  every 
second  with  mathematical  precision  ;  the  pedagogue 
shouted  ;   the  counting  machine  went  indifferently  on. 


io6  A  SLAV  SOUL 

3180,  3181,  3182.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  garrison  lieutenants  drew  his  sword 
and  began  to  hack  at  the  apparatus,  but  after  the 
fifth  blow  there  remained  only  the  hilt,  and  a  jumping 
splinter  hit  the  president  of  the  Zemstvo.  Most 
dreadful  of  all  was  the  fact  that  it  was  impossible  to 
guess  to  what  point  the  flogging  would  go  on.  The 
chronometer  was  proving  itself  weighty.  The  man 
sent  for  the  key  still  did  not  return,  and  the  counter, 
having  long  since  passed  the  figure  previously  indicated 
by  the  inventor,  went  on  placidly. 

3999,  4000,  4001. 

The  pedagogue  jumped  no  longer.  He  just  lay 
with  gaping  mouth  and  protruding  eyes,  and  only 
twitched  convulsively. 

At  last,  the  governor  of  the  fortress,  boiling  with 
indignation,  roared  out  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
barking  of  his  dog  : 

"  Madness  !  Debauch  !  Unheard  of !  Order  up 
the  fiie-brigade  !  " 

This  idea  was  the  wisest.  The  governor  of  the 
town  was  an  enthusiast  for  the  fire-brigade,  and  had 
smartened  the  firemen  to  a  rare  pitch.  In  less  than 
five  minutes,  and  at  that  moment  when  the  indicator 
showed  stroke  No.  4550,  the  brave  young  fellows  of 
the  fire-brigade  broke  on  the  scene  with  choppers  and 
hooks. 

The  magnificent  mechanical  self-flogger  was  de- 
stroyed for  ever  and  ever.  With  the  machine  perished 
also  the  idea.  As  regards  the  inventor,  it  should  be 
said  that,  after  a  considerable  time  of  feeling  sore  in 
a  corporal  way  and  of  nervous  weakness,  he  returned 
to  his  occupation.     But  the  fatal  occasion  completely 


MECHANICAL    JUSTICE  107 

changed  his  character.  He  became  for  the  rest  of 
his  hfe  a  cahn,  sweet,  melancholy  man,  and  though 
he  taught  Latin  and  Greek  he  was  a  favourite  with  the 
schoolboys. 

He  has  never  returned  to  his  invention. 


Vlll 
THE    LAST   WORD 

Yes,  gentlemen,  I  killed  him  ! 

In  vain  do  you  try  to  obtain  for  me  a  medical 
certificate  of  temporary  aberration.  I  shall  not 
take  advantage  of  it. 

I  killed  him  soberly,  conscientiously,  coldly,  without 
the  least  regret,  fear  or  hesitation.  Were  it  in  your 
power  to  resurrect  him,  I  would  repeat  my  crime. 

He  followed  me  always  and  everywhere.  He  took 
a  thousand  human  shapes,  and  did  not  shrink — 
shameless  creature — to  dress  in  women's  clothes  upon 
occasion.  He  took  the  guise  of  my  relative,  my  dear 
friend,  colleague,  good  acquaintance.  He  could  dress 
to  look  any  age  except  that  of  a  child  (as  a  child  he 
only  failed  and  looked  ridiculous).  He  has  filled 
up  my  life  with  himself,  and  poisoned  it. 

What  has  been  most  dreadful  was  that  I  have 
always  foreseen  in  advance  all  his  words,  gestures 
and  actions. 

When  I  met  him  he  would  drawl,  crushing  my  hand 
in  his  : 

"  Aha  !  Whom — do — I — see  ?  Dear  me  !  You 
must  be  getting  on  in  years  now.  How's  your 
health?" 

Then  he  would  answer  as  for  himself,  though  I  had 
not  asked  him  anything  : 


THE   LAST   WORD  log 

"  Thank  you.  So  so.  Nothing  to  boast  of.  Have 
you  read  in  to-day's  paper  .  .  .  ?  " 

If  he  by  any  chance  noticed  that  I  had  a  flushed 
cheek,  flushed  by  the  vexation  of  having  met  him, 
he  would  be  sure  to  croak  : 

"  Eh,  neighbour,  how  red  you're  getting." 

He  would  come  to  me  just  at  those  moments  when 
I  was  up  to  the  neck  in  work,  would  sit  down  and 
say: 

"  Ah  !     I'm  afraid  I've  interrupted  you." 

For  two  hours  he  would  bore  me  to  death,  prattling 
of  himself  and  his  children.  He  would  see  I  was 
tearing  my  hair  and  biting  my  lips  till  the  blood  came, 
and  would  simply  delight  in  my  torments. 

Having  poisoned  my  working  mood  for  a  whole 
month  in  advance,  he  would  stand,  yawn  a  little, 
and  then  murmur  : 

"  Lord  knows  why  I  stay  here  talking.  I've  got 
lots  to  do." 

When  I  met  him  in  a  railway  carriage  he  always 
began  : 

"  Permit  me  to  ask,  are  you  going  f ar  ?  "     And  then  : 

"  On  business  or  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Where  do  you  work  ?  " 

"  Married  ?  " 

Oh,  well  do  I  know  all  his  ways.  Closing  my  eyes 
I  see  him.  He  strikes  me  on  the  shoulder,  on  the 
back,  on  the  knees.  He  gesticulates  so  closely  to 
my  eyes  and  nose  that  I  wince,  as  if  about  to  be  struck. 
Catching  hold  of  the  lappet  of  my  coat,  he  draws 
himself  up  to  me  and  breathes  in  my  face.  When 
he  visits  me  he  allows  his  foot  to  tremble  on  the  floor 
under  the  table,  so  that  the  shade  of  the  lamp  tinkles. 


no  A  SLAV  SOUL 

At  an  "  at  home  "  he  thrums  on  the  back  of  my  chair 
with  his  fingers,  and  in  pauses  of  the  conversation 
drawls,  "  y-e-s,  y-es."  At  cards  he  calls  out,  knocks 
on  the  table  and  quacks  as  he  loses  :  "  What's  that  ? 
What  ?     What  ?  " 

Start  him  in  an  argument,  and  he  always  begins  by  : 

"  Eh,  neighbour,  it's  humbug  you're  talking." 

"  Why  humbug  ?  "  you  ask  timidly. 

"  Because  it  is  nonsense." 

What  evil  have  I  done  to  this  man  ?  I  don't  know. 
He  set  himself  to  spoil  my  existence,  and  he  spoiled 
it.  Thanks  to  him,  I  now  feel  a  great  aversion  from 
the  sea,  the  moon,  the  air,  poetry,  painting,  music. 

"  Tolstoy  " — he  bawled  orally,  and  in  print  — 
"  made  his  estate  over  to  his  wife,  and  he  himself.  .  .  . 
Compared  with  Turgenief,  he.  .  .  .  He  sewed  his  own 
jack-boots  .  .  .  great  writer  of  the  Russian  earth.  .  .  . 
Hurrah  !  .  .  . 

"  Pushkin  ?     He  created  the  language,  didn't  he  ? 

Do    you    remember    '  Calm  was   the    Ukraine  night, 

clear  was  the  sky  '  ?     You  remember  what  they  did 

to  the  woman  in  the  third  act.     Hsh  !     There  are  no 

ladies  present,  do  you  remember  ? 

'"In  our  little  boat  we  go, 

Under  the  little  boat  the  water.' 

"  Dostoevsky  .  .  .  have  you  read  how  he  went 
one  night  to  Turgenief  to  confess  .  .  .  Gogol,  do  you 
know  the  sort  of  disease  he  had  ?  " 

Should  I  go  to  a  picture  gallery,  and  stand_^before 
some  quiet  evening  landscape,  he  would  be  sure  to 
be  on  my  heels,  pushing  me  forward,  and  saying  to  a 
girl  on  his  arm  : 

"  Very    sweetly    drawn  .  .  .  distance  .   .   .   atmo- 


THE   LAST   WORD  iii 

sphere  .  .  .  the  moon  to  the  Hfe.  ...  Do  you  remem- 
ber Nina — the  coloured  supplement  of  the  Neva'^ — 
it  was  something  like  it.  .  .  ." 

I  sit  at  the  opera  listening  to  "  Carmen."  He  is  there, 
as  everywhere.  He  is  behind  me,  and  has  his  feet 
on  the  lower  bar  of  my  fauteuil.  He  hums  the  tune 
of  the  duet  in  the  last  act,  and  through  his  feet  com- 
municates to  my  nerves  every  movement  of  his  body. 
Then,  in  the  entr'act,  I  hear  him  speaking  in  a  voice 
pitched  high  enough  for  me  to  hear  : 

"  Wonderful  gramophone  records  the  Zadodadofs 
have.  Shalapin  absolutely.  You  couldn't  tell  the 
difference." 

Yes,  it  was  he  or  someone  like  him  who  invented 
the  barrel  organ,  the  gramophone,  the  bioscope,  the 
photophone,  the  biograph,  the  phonograph,  the  pathe- 
phone,  the  musical  box,  the  pianino,  the  motor  car, 
paper  collars,  oleographs,  and  newspapers. 

There's  no  getting  away  from  him.  I  flee  away 
at  night  to  the  wild  seashore,  and  he  down  in  solitude 
upon  a  cliff,  but  he  steals  after  me  in  the  shadow,  and 
suddenly  the  silence  is  broken  by  a  self-satisfied  voice 
which  says  : 

"  What  a  lovely  night,  Katenka,  isn't  it  ?  The 
clouds,  eh,  look  at  them  !  Just  as  in  a  picture.  And 
if  a  painter  painted  them  just  hke  it,  who  would 
say  it  was  true  to  Natme  ?  " 

He  has  killed  the  best  minutes  of  my  life — minutes 
of  love,  the  dear  sweet  nights  of  youth.  How  often, 
when  I  have  wandered  arm  in  arm  with  the  most 
beauteous  creation  of  Nature,  along  an  avenue  where, 
upon  the  ground,  the  silver  moonlight  was  in  pattern 

1  A  popular  Russian  journal. 


112  A  SLAV  SOUL 

with  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  he  has  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  spoken  up  to  me  in  a  woman's 
voice,  has  rested  his  head  on  my  shoulder  and  cried 
out  in  a  theatrical  tone  : 

"  Tell  me,  do  you  love  to  dream  by  moonlight  ?  " 

Or: 

"  Tell  me,  do  you  love  Nature  ?  As  for  me,  I  madly 
adore  Nature." 

He  was  many  shaped  and  many  faced,  my  persecutor, 
but  was  always  the  same  underneath.  He  took  upon 
occasion  the  guise  of  professor,  doctor,  engineer, 
lady  doctor,  advocate,  girl-student,  author,  wife  of  the 
excise  inspector,  official,  passenger,  customer,  guest, 
stranger,  spectator,  reader,  neighbour  at  a  country 
house.  In  early  youth  I  had  the  stupidity  to  think 
that  these  were  all  separate  people.  But  they  were 
all  one  and  the  same.  Bitter  experience  has  at  last 
discovered  to  me  his  name.  It  is — the  Russian 
intelligent. 

If  he  has  at  any  time  missed  me  peisonally,  he  has 
left  everywhere  his  traces,  his  visiting  cards.  On  the 
heights  of  Barchau  and  Machuka  I  have  found  his 
orange  peelings,  sardine  tins,  and  chocolate  wrappings. 
On  the  rocks  of  Aloopka,  on  the  top  of  the  belfry  of 
St.  John,  on  the  granites  of  Imatra,  on  the  walls  of 
Bakhchisari,  in  the  grotto  of  Lermontof,  I  have 
found  the  following  signatures  and  remarks  : — 

"Pusia  and  Kuziki  1908  year  27  February." 

"  Ivanof." 

"A.  M.  Plokhokhostof  (Bad-tail)  from  Saratof." 

"  Ivanof." 

"  Pechora  girl." 

"Ivanof." 


THE   LAST   WORD  113 

"M.D.  .  .  .  P.A.P.  .  .  .  Talotchka  and  Achmet." 

"Ivanof." 

"Trophim  Sinepupof.     Samara  Town." 

"Ivanof." 

"Adel  Soloveitchik  from  Minsk." 

"Ivanof." 

"  From  this  height  I  delighted  in  the  view  of  the 
sea. — C.  NicoDEMus  Ivanovitch  Bezuprechny." 

"Ivanof." 

I  have  read  his  verses  and  remarks  in  all  visiting 
books,  and  in  Puskhin's  house,  at  Lermontof  s  Cliff, 
and  in  the  ancient  monasteries  have  read  :  "  The 
Troakofs  came  here  from  Penza,  drank  kvas  and  ate 
sturgeon.  We  wish  the  same  to  you,"  or  "  Visited 
the  natal  ash-tray  of  the  great  Russian  poet,  Chichkin, 
teacher  of  caligraphy,  Voronezh  High  School  for 
Boys,"  or — 

"  Praise  to  thee,  Ai  Petri,  mountain  white. 
In  dress  imperial  of  j&r. 
I  climbed  up  yesterday  unto  thy  height. 
Retired  StafE-Captain  NikoU  Profer." 

I  needed  but  to  pick  up  my  favourite  Russian  book, 
and  I  came  upon  him  at  once.  "  I  have  read  this 
book. — Pafnutenko."  "The  author  is  a  blockhead." 
"  Mr.  Author  hasn't  read  Karl  Marx."  I  turn  over 
the  pages,  and  I  find  his  notes  in  all  the  margins. 
Then,  of  course,  no  one  like  he  turns  down  corners 
and  makes  dog-ears,  tears  out  pages,  or  drops  grease 
on  them  from  tallow  candles. 

Gentlemen,  judges,  it  is  hard  for  me  to  go  on. 
This  man  has  abused,  fouled,  vulgarised  all  that  was 
dear  to  me,  delicate  and  touching.  I  struggled  a 
long  while  with  myself.     Years  went  by.     My  nerves 

S.S.  I 


114  A  SLAV  SOUL 

became  more  irritable.     I  saw  there  was  not  room  for 
both  of  us  in  the  world.     One  of  us  had  to  go. 

1  foresaw  for  a  long  while  that  it  would  be  just 
some  little  trifle  that  would  drive  me  to  the  crime. 
So  it  was. 

You  know  the  particulars.  In  the  compartment 
there  was  a  crush  ;  the  passengers  were  sitting  on 
one  another's  heads.  He,  with  his  wife,  his  son,  a 
schoolboy  in  the  preparatory  class,  and  a  pile  of  luggage, 
were  occupying  four  seats.  Upon  this  occasion  he 
was  wearing  the  uniform  of  the  Department  of  Popular 
Education.     I  went  up  to  him  and  asked  : 

"  Is  there  not  a  free  seat  here  ?  " 

He  answered  like  a  bulldog  with  a  bone,  not  looking 
at  me  : 

"  No.  This  seat  is  taken  by  another  gentleman. 
These  are  his  things.     He'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

The  train  began  to  move. 

I  waited,  standing,  where  I  was.  We  went  on 
about  ten  miles.  The  gentleman  didn't  come.  I  was 
silent,  and  I  looked  into  the  face  of  the  pedagogue, 
thinking  that  there  might  yet  be  in  him  some  gleam 
of  conscience. 

But  no.  We  went  another  fifteen  miles.  He  got  down 
a  basket  of  provisions  and  began  to  eat.  He  went  out 
with  a  kettle  for  hot  water,  and  made  himself  tea.  A 
little  domestic  scandal  arose  over  the  sugar  for  the  tea. 

"  Peter,  you've  taken  a  lump  of  sugar  on  the  sly  !  " 

"  Word  of  honour,  by  God,  I  haven't !  Look  in  my 
pockets,  by  God  !  " 

"  Don't  swear,  and  don't  lie.  I  counted  them 
before  we  set  out,  on  purpose.  .  .  .  There  were  eighteen 
and  now  there  are  seventeen," 


THE   LAST   WORD  115 

"  By  God  !  !  " 

"  Don't  swear.  It  is  shameful  to  lie.  I  will 
forgive  you  everything,  only  tell  me  straight  out 
the  truth.  But  a  lie  I  can  never  forgive.  Only 
cowards  lie.  One  who  is  capable  of  lying  is  capable  of 
murdering,  of  stealing,  of  betraying  his  king  and  his 
country.   .  .  ." 

So  he  ran  on  and  ran  on.  I  had  heard  such 
utterances  from  him  in  my  earliest  childhood, 
when  he  was  my  governess,  afterwards  when  he  was 
my  class  teacher,  and  again  when  he  wrote  in  the 
newspaper. 

I  interrupted. 

"  You  find  fault  with  your  son  for  lying,  and  yet 
you  yourself  have,  in  his  presence,  told  a  whopping 
lie.  You  said  this  seat  was  occupied  by  a  gentleman. 
Where  is  that  gentleman  ?     Show  him  to  me." 

The  pedagogue  went  purple,  and  his  eyes  dilated. 

"I  beg  you,  don't  interfere  with  people  who  don't 
interfere  with  you.  Mind  your  own  business.  How 
scandalous  !  Conductor,  please  warn  this  passenger 
that  he  will  not  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  other 
people  in  the  railway  carriage.  Please  take  measures, 
or  I'll  report  the  matter  to  the  gendarme,  and  write 
in  the  complaint  book." 

The  conductor  screwed  up  his  eyes  in  a  fatherly 
expression,  and  went  out.  But  the  pedagogue  went 
on,  unconsoled  : 

"  No  one  speaks  to  you.  No  one  was  interfering 
with  you.  Good  Lord  !  a  decent-looking  man  too, 
in  a  hat  and  a  collar,  clearly  one  of  the  intelligentia. 
...  A  peasant  now,  or  a  workman  .  .  .  but  no,  an 
intelligent !  " 

I  8 


ii6  A  SLAV   SOUL 

Intel-li-gent !  The  executioner  had  named  me 
executioner  !  It  was  ended.  ...  He  had  pronounced 
his  own  sentence. 

I  took  out  of  the  pocket  of  my  overcoat  a  revolver, 
examined  the  charge,  pointed  it  at  the  pedagogue 
between  the  eyes,  and  said  calmly  : 

"  Say  your  prayers." 

He  turned  pale  and  shrieked  : 

"  Guard-d-d  !  .  .  ." 

That  was  his  last  word.     I  pulled  the  trigger. 

I  have  finished,  gentlemen.  I  repeat  :  I  do  not 
repent.  There  is  no  sorrow  for  him  in  my  soul. 
One  desolating  doubt  remains,  however,  and  it  will 
haunt  me  to  the  end  of  my  days,  should  I  finish  them 
in  prison  oi  in  an  asylum. 

He  has  a  son  left  !  What  if  he  takes  on  his  father's 
nature  ? 


IX 

THE   WHITE   POODLE 


By  narrow  mountain  paths,  from  one  villa  to 
another,  a  small  wandering  troupe  made  their  way 
along  the  southern  shore  of  the  Crimea.  Ahead 
commonly  ran  the  white  poodle,  Arto,  with  his  long 
red  tongue  hanging  out  from  one  side  of  his  mouth. 
The  poodle  was  shorn  to  look  like  a  lion.  iVt  crossways 
he  would  stop,  wag  his  tail,  and  look  back  questioningly. 
He  seemed  to  obtain  some  sort  of  sign,  known  to  him 
alone,  and  without  waiting  for  the  troupe  to  catch  up 
he  would  bound  forward  on  the  right  track,  shaking 
his  shaggy  ears,  never  making  a  mistake.  Following 
the  dog  came  the  twelve-year-old  Sergey,  carrying 
under  his  left  arm  a  little  mattress  for  his  acrobatic 
exercises,  and  holding  in  his  right  hand  a  narrow  dirty 
cage,  with  a  goldfinch,  taught  to  pull  out  from  a  case 
various  coloured  papers  on  which  were  printed  predic- 
tions of  coming  fortune.  Last  of  all  came  the  oldest 
member  of  the  troupe,  grandfather  Martin  Lodishkin, 
with  a  barrel  organ  on  his  bent  back. 

The  organ  was  an  old  one,  very  hoarse,  and  suffering 
from  a  cough  ;  it  had  undergone,  in  the  century  of 
its  existence,  some  scores  of  mendings.  It  played 
two  things :    a  melancholy  German  waltz  of  Launer 


ii8  A  SLAV  SOUL 

and  a  galop  from  "  A  Trip  to  China  Town,"  both  In 
fashion  thirty  to  forty  years  ago,  but  now  forgotten 
by  all.  Beyond  these  drawbacks  it  must  be  said  that 
the  organ  had  two  false  tubes  ;  one  of  them,  a  treble, 
was  absolutely  mute,  did  not  play,  and  therefore 
when  its  turn  came  the  whole  harmony  would,  as  it 
were,  stutter,  go  lame  and  stumble.  The  other  tube, 
giving  forth  a  bass  note,  had  something  the  matter 
with  the  valve,  which  would  not  shut,  and  having 
once  been  played  it  would  not  altogether  stop,  but 
rolled  onward  on  the  same  bass  note,  deafening  and 
confusing  the  other  sounds,  till  suddenly,  at  its  own 
caprice,  it  would  stop.  Grandfather  himself  acknow- 
ledged the  deficiencies  of  his  instrument,  and  might 
sometimes  be  heard  to  remark  jocosely,  though  with 
a  tinge  of  secret  grief  : 

"  What's  to  be  done  ?  .  .  .  An  ancient  organ  .  .  . 
it  has  a  cold.  .  .  .  When  you  play  it  the  gentry  take 
offence.  '  Tfu,'  they  say,  '  what  a  wretched  thing  !  ' 
And  these  pieces  were  very  good  in  their  time,  and 
fashionable,  but  people  nowadays  by  no  means  adore 
good  music.  Give  them  '  The  Geisha,'  '  Under  the 
Double-headed  Eagle,'  please,  or  the  waltz  from 
'  The  Seller  of  Birds.'  Of  course,  these  tubes.  .  .  . 
I  took  the  organ  to  the  shop,  but  they  wouldn't 
undertake  to  mend  it.  '  It  needs  new  tubes,'  said  they. 
*  But,  best  of  all,  if  you'll  take  our  advice,  sell  the  rusty 
thing  to  a  museum  .  .  .  as  a  sort  of  curio.  .  .  .'  Well, 
well,  that's  enough  !  She's  fed  us  till  now,  Sergey 
and  me,  and  if  God  grant,  she  will  go  on  feeding  us." 

Grandfather  Martin  Lodishkin  loved  his  organ  as 
it  is  only  possible  to  love  something  living,  near, 
something  actually  akin,  if  it  may  be  so  expressed. 


THE    WHITE    POODLE  119 

Having  lived  with  his  organ  for  many  years  of  a 
trying  vagabond  life,  he  had  at  last  come  to  see  in  it 
something  inspired,  come  to  feel  as  if  it  were  almost 
a  conscious  being.  It  would  happen  sometimes  at 
night,  when  they  were  lying  on  the  floor  of  some  dirty 
inn,  that  the  barrel  organ,  placed  beside  the  old  man's 
pillow,  would  suddenly  give  vent  to  a  faint  note,  a 
sad  melancholy  quavering  note,  like  an  old  man's 
sigh.  And  Lodishkin  would  put  out  his  hand  to  its 
carved  wooden  side  and  whisper  caressingly  : 

"  What  is  it,  brother  ?  Complaining,  eh !  .  .  . 
Have  patience,  friend.  ..." 

And  as  much  as  Lodishkin  loved  his  organ,  and 
perhaps  even  a  little  more,  he  loved  the  other  two 
companions  of  his  wanderings,  Arto,  the  poodle,  and 
little  Sergey.  He  had  hired  the  boy  five  years  before 
from  a  bad  character,  a  widower  cobbler,  promising 
to  pay  him  two  roubles  a  month.  Shortly  afterwards 
the  cobbler  had  died,  and  Sergey  remained  with 
grandfather,  bound  to  him  for  ever  by  their  common 
life  and  the  little  daily  interests  of  the  troupe, 

II 

The  path  went  along  a  high  cliff  over  the  sea,  and 
wandered  through  the  shade  of  ancient  olive  trees. 
The  sea  gleamed  between  the  trunks  now  and  then, 
and  seemed  at  times  to  stand  like  a  calm  and  mighty 
wall  on  the  horizon  ;  its  colour  was  the  more  blue, 
the  more  intense,  because  of  the  contrast  seen  through 
the  trellis-work  of  silver  verdant  leaves.  In  the  grass, 
amongst  the  kizil  shrubs,  wild  roses  and  vines,  and 
even  on  the  branches  of  the  trees,  swarmed  the 
grasshoppers,   and  the   air   itself  trembled  from  the 


120  A  SLAV  SOUL 

monotonously  sounding  and  unceasing  murmur  of 
their  legs  and  wing-cases.  The  day  turned  out  to  be 
a  sultry  one  ;  there  was  no  wind,  and  the  hot  earth 
burnt  the  soles  of  the  feet. 

Sergey,  going  as  usual  ahead  of  grandfather,  stopped, 
and  waited  for  the  old  man  to  catch  up  to  him. 

"  What  is  it,  Serozha  ?  "  asked  the  organ-grinder. 

"  The  heat,  grandfather  Lodishkin  .  .  .  there's  no 
bearing  it  !     To  bathe  would  be  good.  ..." 

The  old  man  wiped  his  perspiring  face  with  his 
sleeve,  and  hitched  the  organ  to  a  more  comfortable 
position  on  his  back. 

"  What  would  be  better  ?  "  he  sighed,  looking 
eagerly  downward  to  the  cool  blueness  of  the  sea. 
"  Only,  after  bathing,  one  gets  more  hungry,  you 
know.  A  village  doctor  once  said  to  me  :  '  Salt  has 
more  effect  on  man  than  anything  else  .  .  .  that 
means,  it  weakens  him  .  .  .  sea-salt.  .  .  .'  " 

"  He  lied,  perhaps,"  remarked  Sergey,  doubtfully. 

"  Lied  !  What  next  ?  Why  should  he  lie  ?  A 
solid  man,  non-drinker  .  .  .  having  a  little  house  in 
Sevastopol.  What's  more,  there's  no  getting  down 
to  the  sea  here.  Wait  a  bit,  we'll  get  to  Miskhor, 
and  there  rinse  our  sinful  bodies.  It's  line  to  bathe 
before  dinner  .  .  .  and  afterwards  to  sleep,  we  three 
.  .  .  and  a  splendid  bit  of  work.  ..." 

Arto,  hearing  conversation  behind  him,  turned  and 
ran  back,  his  soft  blue  eyes,  half  shut  from  the  heat, 
looked  up  appealingly,  and  his  hanging  tongue  trembled 
from  quick  breathing. 

"What  is  it,  brother  doggie?  Warm,  eh?" 
asked  grandfather. 

The  dog  yawned,  straining  his  jaws  and  curling 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  121 

his  tongue  into  a  little  tube,  shook  all  his  body,  and 
whimpered. 

"  Yes,  yes,  little  brother,  but  it  can't  be  helped," 
continued  Lodishkin.  "It  is  written,  '  In  the  sweat 
of  thy  face,'  though,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  can  hardly 
be  said  that  you  have  a  face,  or  anything  more  than  a 
muzzle.  ...  Be  off !  Go  off  with  you.  ...  As  for 
me,  Serozha,  I  must  confess  I  just  like  this  heat. 
Only  the  organ's  a  bit  of  a  nuisance,  and  if  there  were 
no  work  to  do  I'd  just  lie  down  somewhere  in  the 
grass  in  the  shade,  and  have  a  good  morning  of  it. 
For  old  bones  this  sunshine  is  the  finest  thing  in  the 
world." 

The  footpath  turned  downward  to  a  great  highway, 
broad  and  hard  and  blindingly  white.  At  the  point 
where  the  troupe  stepped  on  to  it  commenced  an 
ancient  baronial  estate,  in  the  abundant  verdure  of 
which  were  beautiful  villas,  flower-beds,  orangeries 
and  fountains.  Lodishkin  knew  the  district  well, 
and  called  at  each  of  the  villas  every  year,  one  after 
another,  during  the  vine-harvesting  season,  when  the 
whole  Crimea  is  filled  with  rich,  fashionable,  and 
pleasure-loving  visitors.  The  bright  magnificence  of 
southern  Nature  did  not  touch  the  old  man,  but  it 
enraptured  Sergey,  who  was  there  for  the  first  time. 
The  mxagnolias,  with  their  hard  and  shiny  leaves, 
shiny  as  if  lacquered  or  varnished,  with  their  large 
white  blossoms,  each  almost  as  big  as  a  dinner-plate  ; 
the  summer-houses  of  interwoven  vines  hanging  with 
heavy  clusters  of  fruit  ;  the  enormous  century-old 
plane  trees,  with  their  bright  trunks  and  mighty 
crowns ;  tobacco  plantations,  rivulets,  waterfalls, 
and  everywhere,  in  flower-beds,  gardens,  on  the  walls 


122  A  SLAV   SOUL 

of  the  villas,  bright  sweet-scented  roses — all  these 
things  impressed  unceasingly  the  naive  soul  of  the  boy. 
He  expressed  his  admiration  of  the  scene,  pulling  the 
old  man's  sleeve  and  crying  out  every  minute  : 

"  Grandfather  Lodishkin,  but,  grandfather,  just 
look,  goldfish  in  the  fountain  !  .  .  .  I  swear,  grand- 
father, goldfish,  if  I  die  for  it  !  "  cried  the  boy,  pressing 
his  face  to  a  railing  and  staring  at  a  large  tank  in  the 
middle  of  a  garden.  "  I  say,  grandfather,  look  at  the 
peaches  !  Good  gracious,  what  a  lot  there  are.  Look, 
how  many  !     And  all  on  one  tree." 

"  Leave  go,  leave  go,  little  stupid.  What  are  you 
stretching  your  mouth  about  ?  "  joked  the  old  man. 
"  Just  wait  till  we  get  to  the  town  of  Novorossisk, 
and  give  ourselves  to  the  South.  Now,  that's  a  place 
indeed ;  there  you'll  see  something.  Sotchi,  Adler, 
Tuapse,  and  then,  little  brother,  Sukhum,  Batum.  .  .  . 
Your  eyes'll  drop  out  of  your  head.  .  .  .  Palms,  for 
instance.  Absolutely  astonishing ;  the  trunks  all 
shaggy  like  felt,  and  each  leal  so  large  that  we  could 
hide  ourselves  in  one." 

"  You  don't  mean  it  !  "  cried  Sergey,  joyfully. 

"  Wait  a  bit  and  you'll  see  for  yourself.  Is  there 
little  of  anything  there  ?  Now,  oranges  for  instance, 
or,  let  us  say,  lemons.  .  .  .  You've  seen  them,  no 
doubt,  in  the  shops?  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see  them  simply  as  if  they  were  grow- 
ing in  the  air.  Without  anything,  just  on  the  tree,  as 
up  here  you  see  an  apple  or  a  pear.  .  .  .  And  the 
people  down  there,  little  brother,  are  altogether  out  of 
the  way  :  Turks,  Persians,  different  sorts  of  Cherkesses, 
and  all  in  gowns  and  with  daggers,  a  desperate  sort  of 


THE   WHITE    POODLE  123 

people  !    And,  little  brother,  there  are  even  Ethiopians. 
I've  seen  them  many  times  in  Batum  !  ' ' 

"  Ethiopians,  I  know.  Those  with  horns,"  cried 
Sergey,  confidently. 

"  Well,  horns  I  suppose  they  have  not,"  said  grand- 
father; "that's  nonsense.  But  they're  black  as  a 
pair  of  boots,  and  shine  even.  Thick,  red,  ugly  lips, 
great  white  eyes,  and  hair  as  curly  as  the  back  of  a 
black  sheep," 

"  01,  oi,  how  terrible  !  .  .  .  Are  Ethiopians  like 
that  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  don't  be  frightened.  Of  course,  at 
first,  before  you're  accustomed,  it's  alarming.  But 
when  you  see  that  other  people  aren't  afraid,  you 
pick  up  courage.  .  .  .  There's  all  sorts  there,  little 
brother.  When  we  get  there  you'll  see.  Only  one 
thing  is  bad — the  fever.  All  around  lie  marshes, 
rottenness ;  then  there  is  such  terrible  heat.  The 
people  who  live  there  find  it  all  right,  but  it's  bad  for 
new-comers.  However,  we've  done  enough  tongue- 
wagging,  you  and  I,  Sergey,  so  just  climb  over 
that  stile  and  go  up  to  the  house.  There  are 
some  really  fine  people  living  there.  ...  If  ever 
there's  an3rthing  you  want  to  know,  just  ask  me  ;  I 
know  all." 

But  the  day  turned  out  to  be  a  very  unsuccessful 
one  for  them.  At  one  place  the  servants  drove  them 
away  almost  before  they  were  seen  even  from  a  distance 
by  the  mistress ;  at  another  the  organ  had  hardly 
made  its  melancholy  beginning  in  front  of  the  balcony 
when  they  were  waved  away  in  disgust  ;  at  a  third 
they  were  told  that  the  master  and  mistress  had  not 
yet   arrived.     At  two  villas  they  were  indeed  paid 


124  A  SLAV  SOUL 

for  their  show,  but  very  Uttle.  Still,  grandfather 
never  turned  his  nose  up  even  at  the  smallest  amounts. 
Coming  out  at  the  gate  on  to  the  road  he  would  smile 
good-naturedly  and  say  : 

"  Two  plus  five,  total  seven  .  .  .  hey  hey,  brother 
Serozhenka,  that's  money.  Seven  times  seven,  and 
you've  pretty  well  got  a  shilling,  and  that  would  be  a 
good  meal  and  a  night's  lodging  in  our  pockets,  and 
p'raps,  old  man  Lodishkin  might  be  allowed  a  little 
glass  on  account  of  his  weakness.  .  .  .  Ai,  ai,  there's 
a  sort  of  people  I  can't  make  out ;  too  stingy  to  give 
sixpence,  yet  ashamed  to  put  in  a  penny  .  .  .  and  so 
they  surlily  order  you  off.  Better  to  give,  were  it 
only  three  farthings.  ...  I  wouldn't  take  offence, 
I'm  nobody  .  .  .  why  take  offence  ?  " 

Generally  speaking,  Lodishkin  was  of  a  modest 
order,  and  even  when  he  was  hounded  out  of  a  place 
he  would  not  complain.  However,  on  this  day  of 
which  we  are  writing,  he  was,  as  it  happened,  disturbed 
out  of  his  usual  equanimity  by  one  of  the  people 
of  these  Crimean  villas,  a  lady  of  a  very  kind  appear- 
ance, the  owner  of  a  beautiful  country  house  surrounded 
by  a  wonderful  flower-garden.  She  listened  attentively 
to  the  music ;  watched  Sergey's  somersaults  and 
Arto's  tricks  even  more  attentively  ;  asked  the  little 
boy's  age,  what  was  his  name,  where  he'd  learned 
gymnastics,  how  grandfather  had  come  by  him, 
what  his  father  had  done  for  a  living,  and  so  on,  and 
had  then  bidden  them  wait,  and  had  gone  indoors 
apparently  to  fetch  them  something. 

Ten  minutes  passed,  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  she 
did  not  appear,  but  the  longer  she  stayed  the  greater 
became  the  vague  hopes  of  the  troupe.    Grandfather 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  125 

even  whispered  to  Sergey,  shielding  his  mouth  with 
his  palm  the  while  : 

"  Eh,  Sergey,  this  is  good,  isn't  it  ?  Ask  me  if 
you  want  to  know  anything.  Now  we're  going  to 
get  some  old  clothes  or  perhaps  a  pair  of  boots.  A 
sure  thing  !  ,  .  ." 

At  last  the  lady  came  out  on  her  balcony  again, 
and  flung  into  Sergey's  held-out  hat  a  small  silver  coin. 
And  then  she  went  in  again.  The  coin  turned  out 
to  be  an  old  worn-out  threepenny  bit  with  a  hole  in  it. 
No  use  to  buy  anything  with.  Grandfather  held  it 
in  his  hand  and  considered  it  a  long  while  distrustfully. 
He  left  the  house  and  went  back  to  the  road,  and  all 
the  while  he  still  held  the  bit  of  money  in  his  open  and 
extended  palm,  as  if  weighing  it  as  he  went. 

"  Well,  well.  .  .  .  That's  smart  !  "  said  he  at  last, 
stopping  suddenly.  "  I  must  say.  .  .  .  And  didn't 
we  three  blockheads  do  our  best.  It'd  a-been  better 
if  she'd  given  us  a  button.  That,  at  least,  we  could 
have  sewn  on  somewhere.  What's  the  use  of  this  bit 
of  rubbish  ?  The  lady,  no  doubt,  thought  that  it 
would  be  all  the  same  as  a  good  coin  to  me.  I'd  pass 
it  off  on  someone  at  night.  No,  no,  you're  deeply 
mistaken,  my  lady.  Old  man  Lodishkin  is  not  going 
to  descend  so  low.  Yes,  m'lady,  there  goes  your 
precious  threepenny  bit  !     There  !  " 

And  with  indignation  and  pride  he  flung  the  coin 
on  to  the  road,  and  it  gently  jingled  and  was  lost  in 
the  dust. 

So  the  morning  passed,  and  the  old  man  and  the 
boy,  having  passed  all  the  villas  on  the  cliff,  prepared 
to  go  down  to  the  sea.  There  remained  but  one  last 
estate  on  the  way.     This  was  on  the  left-hand  side. 


126  A  SLAV  SOUL 

The  house  itself  was  not  visible,  the  wall  being  high, 
and  over  the  wall  loomed  a  fine  array  of  dusty 
cypresses.  Only  through  the  wide  cast-iron  gate, 
whose  fantastical  design  gave  it  the  appearance  of 
lace,  was  it  possible  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  lovely 
lawn.  Thence  one  peered  upon  fresh  green  grass, 
flower-beds,  and  in  the  background  a  winding  pergola 
of  vines.  In  the  middle  of  the  lawn  stood  a  gardener 
watering  the  roses.  He  put  a  finger  to  the  pipe  in 
his  hand,  and  caused  the  water  in  the  fountain  to 
leap  in  the  sun,  glittering  in  myriads  of  little  sparkles 
and  flashes. 

Grandfather  was  going  past,  but  looking  through 
the  gate  he  stopped  in  doubt. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  Sergey,"  said  he.  "  Surely  there  are 
no  folk  here  !  There's  a  strange  thing  !  Often  as 
I've  come  along  this  road,  I've  never  seen  a  soul 
here  before.  Oh,  well,  brother  Sergey,  get  ready !  " 
A  notice  was  fixed  on  the  wall : 
"  Friendship  Villa  :  Trespassers  will  be  prosecuted," 
and  Sergey  read  this  out  aloud. 

"  Friendship  ?  "  questioned  grandfather,  who  himself 
could  not  read.  "  Vo-vo  !  That's  one  of  the  finest 
of  words — friendship.  All  day  we've  failed,  but  this 
house  will  make  up  for  it.  I  smell  it  with  my  nose, 
as  if  I  were  a  hunting  dog.  Now,  Arto,  come  here,  old 
fellow.  Walk  up  bravely,  Serozha.  Keep  your  eye 
on  me,  and  if  you  want  to  know  anything  just  ask  me. 
I  know  all." 

Ill 

The  paths  were  made  of  a  well -rolled  yellow  gravel, 
crunching  under  the  feet ;  and  at  the  sides  were  borders 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  127 

of  large  rose-coloured  shells.  In  the  flower-beds, 
above  a  carpet  of  various  coloured  grasses,  grew  rare 
plants  with  brilliant  blossoms  and  sweet  perfume. 
Ciystal  water  rose  and  splashed  continually  from  the 
fountains,  and  garlands  of  beautiful  creeping  plants 
hung  downward  from  beautiful  vases,  suspended  in 
mid-air  from  wires  stretched  between  the  trees.  On 
marble  pillars  just  outside  the  house  stood  two  splendid 
spheres  of  mirror  glass,  and  the  wandering  troupe, 
coming  up  to  them,  saw  themselves  reflected  feet 
upwards  in  an  amusing  twisted  and  elongated 
picture. 

In  front  of  the  balcony  was  a  wide,  much-trampled 
platform.  On  this  Sergey  spread  his  little  mattress, 
and  grandfather,  having  fixed  the  organ  on  its  stick, 
prepared  to  turn  the  handle.  But  just  as  he  was  in 
the  act  of  doing  this,  a  most  unexpected  and  strange 
sight  suddenly  attracted  his  attention. 

A  boy  of  nine  or  ten  rushed  suddenly  out  of  the 
house  on  to  the  terrace  like  a  bomb,  giving  forth 
piercing  shrieks.  He  was  in  a  sailor  suit,  with  bare 
arms  and  legs.  His  fair  curls  hung  in  a  tangle  on  his 
shoulders.  Away  he  rushed,  and  after  him  came  six 
people  ;  two  women  in  aprons,  a  stout  old  lackey, 
without  moustache  or  beaid  but  with  grey  side- 
whiskers,  wearing  a  frock  coat,  a  lean,  carrotty-haired, 
red-nosed  girl  in  a  blue-checked  dress,  a  young  sickly- 
looking  but  very  beautiful  lady  in  a  blue  dressing- 
jacket  trimmed  with  lace,  and,  last  of  all,  a  stout, 
bald  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  Tussore  silk,  and  with 
gold  spectacles.  They  were  all  very  much  excited, 
waved  their  arms,  spoke  loudly,  and  even  jostled 
one  another.     You  could  see  at  one    that  the  cause 


128  A  SLAV  SOUL 

of  all  their  anxiety  was  the  boy  in  the  sailor  suit, 
who  had  so  suddenly  rushed  on  to  the  terrace. 

And  the  boy,  the  cause  of  all  this  hurly-burly,  did 
not  cease  screaming  for  one  second,  but  threw  himself 
down  on  his  stomach,  turned  quickly  over  on  to  his 
back,  and  began  to  kick  out  with  his  legs  on  all  sides. 
The  little  crowd  of  grown-ups  fussed  around  him. 
The  old  lackey  in  the  frock  coat  pressed  his  hands  to 
his  starched  shirt  -  front  and  begged  and  implored 
the  boy  to  be  quiet,  his  long  side-whiskers  trembling 
as  he  spoke  : 

"  Little  father,  master  !  .  .  .  Nikolai  Apollonovitch  ! 
.  .  .  Do  not  vex  your  little  mamma.  Do  get  up,  sir ; 
be  so  good,  so  kind — take  a  little,  sir.  The  mixture's 
sv/eet  as  sweet,  just  syrup,  sir.  Now  let  me  help 
you  up.  .  .  ." 

The  women  in  the  aprons  clapped  their  hands  and 
chirped  quickly-quickly,  in  seemingly  passionate  and 
frightened  voices.  The  red-nosed  girl  made  tragic 
gestures,  and  cried  out  something  evidently  very 
touching,  but  completely  incomprehensible,  as  it  was 
in  a  foreign  language.  The  gentleman  in  the  gold 
spectacles  made  speeches  to  the  boy  in  a  reasoning 
bass  voice,  wagged  his  head  to  and  fro  as  he  spoke, 
and  slowly  waved  his  hands  up  and  down.  And  the 
beautiful,  delicate  -  looking  lady  moaned  wearily, 
pressing  a  lace  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"  Ah,  Trilly,  ah,  God  in  Heaven  !  .  .  .  Angel  mine, 
I  beseech  you,  listen,  your  own  mother  begs  you. 
Now  do,  do  take  the  medicine,  take  it  and  you'll  see, 
you'll  feel  better  at  once,  and  the  stomach-ache  will 
go  away  and  the  headache.  Now  do  it  for  me,  my 
joy  !     Oh,  Trilly,  if  you  want  it,  your  mamma  will 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  129 

go  down  on  her  knees.  See,  darling,  I'm  on  my  knees 
before  you.  If  you  wish  it,  I'll  give  you  gold — a 
sovereign,  two  sovereigns,  five  sovereigns.  Tiilly, 
would  you  like  a  live  ass  ?  Would  you  like  a  live 
horse  ?  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  say  something  to  him, 
doctor." 

"  Pay  attention,  Trilly.  Be  a  man  !  "  droned  the 
stout  gentleman  in  the  spectacles. 

"  Ai-yai-yai-ya-a-a-a  !  "  yelled  the  boy,  squirming 
on  the  ground,  and  kicking  about  desperately  with 
his  feet. 

Despite  his  extreme  agitation  he  managed  to  give 
several  kicks  to  the  people  around  him,  and  they, 
for  their  part,  got  out  of  his  way  sufficiently  cleverly. 

Sergey  looked  upon  the  scene  with  curiosity  and 
astonishment,  and  at  last  nudged  the  old  man  in  the 
side  and  said  : 

"  Grandfather  Lodishkin,  what's  the  matter  with 
him  ?     Can't  they  give  him  a  beating  ?  " 

"  A  beating — I  like  that.  .  .  .  That  sort  isn't 
beaten,  but  beats  everybody  else.  A  crazy  boy ; 
ill,  I  expect." 

"  Insane  ?  "  enquired  Sergey. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?     Hst,  be  quiet !  .  .  ." 

"  Ai-yai-ya-a  !  Scum,  fatheads  !  "  shouted  the  boy, 
louder  and  louder. 

"  Well,  begin,  Sergey.  Now's  the  time,  for  I 
know  !  "  ordered  Lodishkin  suddenly,  taking  hold  of 
the  handle  of  his  organ  and  turning  it  with  resolution. 
The  snuffling  and  false  notes  of  the  ancient  galop  rose 
in  the  garden.  All  the  people  stopped  suddenly  and 
looked  round  ;  even  the  boy  became  silent  for  a  few 
seconds. 

S.S  K 


130  A   SLAV  SOUL 

"  Ah,  God  in  heaven,  they  will  upset  my  poor 
Trilly  still  more  !  "  cried  the  lady  in  the  blue  dressing- 
jacket,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  Chase  them  off,  quickly, 
quickly.  Drive  them  away,  and  the  dirty  dog  with 
them.  Dogs  have  always  such  dreadful  diseases. 
Why  do  you  stand  there  helplessly,  Ivan,  as  if  you 
were  turned  to  stone  ?  She  shook  her  handkerchief 
wearily  in  the  direction  of  grandfather  and  the  little 
boy  ;  the  lean,  red-nosed  girl  made  dreadful  eyes  ; 
someone  gave  a  threatening  whisper ;  the  lackey 
in  the  dress  coat  ran  swiftly  from  the  balcony  on  his 
tiptoes,  and,  with  an  expression  of  horror  on  his  face, 
cried  to  the  organ  grinder,  spreading  out  his  arms  like 
wings  as  he  spoke  : 

"  Whatever  does  it  mean — who  permitted  them — 
who  let  them  through  ?     March  !     Clear  out  !   .   .  .  " 

The  organ  became  silent  in  a  melancholy  whimper. 

"  Fine  gentleman,  allow  us  to  explain,"  began  the 
old  man  delicately. 

"  No  explanations  whatever  !  March  !  "  roared  the 
lackey  in  a  hoarse,  angry  whisper. 

His  whole  fat  face  turned  purple,  and  his  eyes 
protruded  to  such  a  degree  that  they  looked  as  if  they 
would  suddenly  roll  out  and  run  away  like  wheels. 
The  sight  was  so  dreadful  that  grandfather  involun- 
tarily took  two  steps  backward. 

"  Put  the  things  up,  Sergey,"  said  he,  hurriedly 
jolting  the  organ  on  to  his  back.     "  Come  on  !  " 

But  they  had  not  succeeded  in  taking  more  than 
ten  steps  when  the  child  began  to  shriek  even  worse 
than  ever  : 

"  Ai-yai-yai  !  Give  it  me  !  I  wa-ant  it  !  A-a-a  ! 
Give  it  !     Call  them  back  !     Me  !  " 


THE    WHITE    POODLE  131 

"  But,  Trilly  !  .  .  .  Ah,  God  in  heaven,  Trilly ;  ah, 
call  them  back  !  "  moaned  the  nervous  lady.  "  Tfu, 
how  stupid  you  all  are  !  .  .  .  Ivan,  don't  you  hear 
when  you're  told  ?  Go  at  once  and  call  those  beggars 
back  !  .  .  ." 

"  Certainly  !  You  !  Hey,  what  d'you  call  your- 
selves ?  Organ  grinders  !  Come  back  !  ' '  cried  several 
voices  at  once. 

The  stout  lackey  jumped  across  the  lawn,  his  side- 
whiskers  waving  in  the  wind,  and,  overtaking  the 
artistes,  cried  out  : 

"  Pst !  Musicians  !  Back  !  Don't  you  hear,  friends, 
you're  called  back  ?  "  cried  he,  panting  and  waving 
both  arms.  "  Venerable  old  man  !  "  said  he  at  last, 
catching  hold  of  grandfather's  coat  by  the  sleeve. 
"  Turn  the  shafts  round.  The  master  and  mistress 
will  be  pleased  to  see  your  pantomime." 

"  Well,  well,  business  at  last  !  "  sighed  grandfather, 
turning  his  head  round.  And  the  little  party  went 
back  to  the  balcony  where  the  people  were  collected, 
and  the  old  man  fixed  up  his  organ  on  the  stick  and 
played  the  hideous  galop  from  the  very  point  at  which 
it  had  been  interrupted. 

The  rumpus  had  died  down.  The  lady  with  her 
little  boy,  and  the  gentleman  in  the  gold  spectacles, 
came  forward.  The  others  remained  respectfully 
behind.  Out  of  the  depths  of  the  shrubbery  came 
the  gardener  in  his  apron,  and  stood  at  a  little 
distance.  From  somewhere  or  other  the  yard- 
porter  made  his  appearance,  and  stood  behind 
the  gardener.  He  was  an  immense  bearded  peasant 
with  a  gloomy  face,  narrow  brows,  and  pock- 
marked    cheeks.       He    was    clad    in    a    new    rose- 

K    2 


132  A   SLAV  SOUL 

coloured  blouse,   on   which  was  a  pattern   of  large 
black  spots,- 

Under  cover  of  the  hoarse  music  of  the  galop, 
Sergey  spread  his  little  mattress,  pulled  off  his  canvas 
breeches — they  had  been  cut  out  of  an  old  sack, 
and  behind,  at  the  broadest  part,  were  ornamented 
by  a  quadrilateral  trade  mark  of  a  factory — threw 
from  his  body  his  torn  shirt,  and  stood  erect  in  his 
cotton  underclothes.  In  spite  of  the  many  mends 
on  these  garments  he  was  a  pretty  figure  of  a  boy, 
lithe  and  strong.  He  had  a  little  programme  of 
acrobatic  tricks  which  he  had  learnt  by  watching 
his  elders  in  the  arena  of  the  circus.  Running  to  the 
mattress  he  would  put  both  hands  to  his  lips,  and, 
with  a  passionate  gesture,  wave  two  theatrical  kisses 
to  the  audience.     So  his  performance  began. 

Grandfather  turned  the  handle  of  the  organ  without 
ceasing,  and  whilst  the  boy  juggled  various  objects 
in  the  air  the  old  music-machine  gave  forth  its  trembling, 
coughing  tunes.  Sergey's  repertoire  was  not  a  large 
one,  but  he  did  it  well  and  with  enthusiasm.  He 
threw  up  into  the  air  an  empty  beer-bottle,  so  that  it 
revolved  several  times  in  its  flight,  and  suddenly 
catching  it  neck  downward  on  the  edge  of  a  tray  he 
balanced  it  there  for  seveial  seconds  ;  he  juggled 
four  balls  and  two  candles,  catching  the  latter  simul- 
taneously in  two  candlesticks  ;  he  played  with  a  fan, 
a  wooden  cigar  and  an  umbrella,  throwing  them  to 
and  fro  in  the  air,  and  at  last  having  the  open  umbrella 
in  his  hand  shielding  his  head,  the  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
and  the  fan  coquettishly  waving  in  his  other  hand. 
Then  he  turned  several  somersaults  on  the  mattress  ; 
did  "  the  frog  "  ;   tied  himself  into  an  American  knot ; 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  133 

walked  on  his  hands,  and  having  exhausted  his  Uttle 
programme  sent  once  more  two  kisses  to  the  pubhc, 
and,  panting  from  the  exercise,  ran  to  grandfather  to 
take  his  place  at  the  organ. 

Now  was  Arto's  turn.  This  the  dog  perfectly 
well  knew,  and  he  had  for  some  time  been  prancing 
round  in  excitement,  and  barking  nervously.  Perhaps 
the  clever  poodle  wished  to  say  that,  in  his  opinion, 
it  was  unreasonable  to  go  through  acrobatic  perform- 
ances when  Reaumur  showed  thirty-two  degrees  in  the 
shade.  But  grandfather  Lodishkin,  with  a  cunning 
grin,  pulled  out  of  his  coat-tail  pocket  a  slender  kizil 
switch.  Arto's  eyes  took  a  melancholy  expression. 
"  Didn't  I  know  it  !  "  they  seemed  to  say,  and  he 
lazily  and  insubmissively  raised  himself  on  his  hind 
paws,  never  once  ceasing  to  look  at  his  master  and 
blink. 

"  Serve,  Arto  !  So,  so,  so  .  .  .,"  ordered  the  old 
man,  holding  the  switch  over  the  poodle's  head. 
"  Over.  So.  Turn  .  .  .  again  .  .  .  again.  .  .  . 
Dance,  doggie,  dance  !  Sit  !  Wha-at  ?  Don't  want 
to  ?  Sit  when  you're  told  !  A-a.  .  .  .  That's  right  ! 
Now  look  !  Salute  the  respected  public.  Now,  Arto  !  " 
cried  Lodishkin  threateningly. 

"  Gaff !  "  barked  the  poodle  in  disgust.  Then  he 
followed  his  master  mournfully  with  his  eyes,  and 
added  twice  more,  "  Gaff,  gaff." 

"  No,  my  old  man  doesn't  understand  me,"  this 
discontented  barking  seemed  to  say. 

"  That's  it,  that's  better.  Politeness  before  every- 
thing. Now  we'll  have  a  little  jump,"  continued  the 
old  man,  holding  out  the  twig  at  a  short  distance 
above  the  ground.      "Allez  !     There's  nothing  to  hang 


134  A  SLAV  SOUL 

out  your,  tongue  about,  brother.  Allez!  Gop  !  Splen- 
did! And  now,  please,  noch  ein  mat  .  .  .  Allez!  .  .  . 
Gop!  Allez!  Gop!  Wonderful  doggie.  When  you 
get  home  you  shall  have  carrots.  You  don't  like 
carrots,  eh  ?  Ah,  Fd  completely  forgotten.  Then 
take  my  silk  topper  and  ask  the  folk.  P'raps  they'll 
give  you  something  a  little  more  tasty." 

Grandfather  raised  the  dog  on  his  hind  legs  and 
put  in  his  mouth  the  old  greasy  cap  which,  with  such 
delicate  irony,  he  had  named  a  silk  topper.  Arto, 
standing  affectedly  on  his  grey  hind  legs,  and  holding 
the  cap  in  his  teeth,  came  up  to  the  terrace.  In  the 
hands  of  the  delicate  lady  there  appeared  a  small 
mother-of-pearl  purse.  All  those  around  her  smiled 
sympathetically. 

"  What  ?  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?  "  asked  the  old  man 
of  Sergey,  teasingly.  "  Ask  me  if  you  ever  want  to 
know  anything,  brother,  for  I  know.  Nothing  less 
than  a  rouble." 

At  that  moment  there  broke  out  such  an  inhuman 
yowl  that  Arto  involuntarily  dropped  the  cap  and  leapt 
off  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  looked  over  his 
shoulders  fearfully,  and  came  and  lay  down  at  his 
master's  feet. 

"  I  wa-a-a-nt  him,"  cried  the  curly-headed  boy, 
stamping  his  feet.  "  Give  him  to  me  !  I  want  him. 
The  dog,  I  tell  you  !     Trilly  wa-ants  the  do-og  !  " 

"  Ah,  God  in  heaven  !  Ah,  Nikolai  Apollonovitch  ! 
,  .  .  Little  father,  master  !  ...  Be  calm,  Trilly,  I 
beseech  you,"  cried  the  voices  of  the  people. 

"  The  dog  !  Give  me  the  dog ;  I  want  him  ! 
Scum,  demons,  fatheads  !  "  cried  the  boy,  fairly  out 
of  his  mind. 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  135 

"  But,  angel  mine,  don't  upset  your  nerves,"  lisped 
the  lady  in  the  blue  dressing-jacket.  "  You'd  like  to 
stroke  the  doggie  ?  Very  well,  very  well,  my  joy, 
in  a  minute  you  shall.  Doctor,  what  do  you  think, 
might  Trilly  stroke  this  dog  ?  " 

"  Generally  speaking,  I  should  not  advise  it,"  said 
the  doctor,  waving  his  hands.  "  But  if  we  had  some 
rehable  disinfectant  as,  for  instance,  boracic  acid  or 
a  weak  solution  of  carbolic,  then  .  .  .  generally  ..." 

"  The  do-og  !  " 

"In  a  minute,  my  charmer,  in  a  minute.  So, 
doctor,  you  order  that  we  wash  the  dog  with  boracic 
acid,  and  then.  .  .  .  Oh,  Trilly,  don't  get  into  such  a 
state  !  Old  man,  bring  up  your  dog,  will  you,  if  you 
please.  Don't  be  afraid,  you  will  be  paid  for  it. 
And,  listen  a  moment — is  the  dog  ill  ?  I  wish  to  ask, 
is  the  dog  suffering  from  hydrophobia  or  skin  disease  ?  " 

"  Don't  want  to  stroke  him,  don't  want  to,"  roared 
Trilly,  blowing  out  his  mouth  like  a  bladder.  "  Fat- 
heads !  Demons  !  Give  it  to  me  altogether  !  I  want 
to  play  with  it.  .  .  .  For  always." 

"  Listen,  old  man,  come  up  here,"  cried  the  lady, 
trying  to  outshout  the  child.  "  Ah,  Trilly,  you'll  kill 
your  own  mother  if  you  make  such  a  noise.  Why  ever 
did  they  let  these  music  people  in  ?  Come  nearer 
— nearer  still ;  come  when  you're  told  !  .  .  .  That's 
better.  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  take  offence !  Trilly,  your 
mother  will  do  all  that  you  ask.  I  beseech  you,  miss, 
do  try  and  calm  the  child.  .  .  .  Doctor,  I  pray  you. 
,  .  .  How  much  d'you  want,  old  man  ?  " 

Grandfather  removed  his  cap,  and  his  face  took  on  a 
respectfully  piteous  expression. 

"  As  much  as  your  kindness  will  think  fit,  my  lady, 


136  A  SLAV   SOUL 

your  Excellency.  .  .  .  We  are  people  in  a  small  way, 
and  anything  is  a  blessing  for  us.  .  .  .  Probably  you 
will  not  do  anything  to  offend  an  old  man.  .  .  ." 

"  Ah,  how  senseless  !  Trilly,  you'll  make  your 
little  throat  ache.  .  .  .  Don't  you  grasp  the  fact  that 
the  dog  is  yours  and  not  mine.  .  .  .  Now,  how  much 
do  you  say  ?     Ten  ?     Fifteen  ?     Twenty  ?  " 

"  A-a-a  ;  I  wa-ant  it,  give  me  the  dog,  give  me  the 
dog,"  squealed  the  boy,  kicking  the  round  stomach 
of  the  lackey  who  happened  to  be  near. 

"  That  is  .  .  .  forgive  me,  your  Serenity,"  stuttered 
Lodishkin.  "  You  see,  I'm  an  old  man,  stupid.  .  .  . 
It's  difficult  to  understand  at  once.  .  ,  .  What's  more, 
I'm  a  bit  deaf  ...  so  I  ought  to  ask,  in  short,  what 
were  you  wishing  to  say  ?  .  .  .  For  the  dog  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Ah,  God  in  heaven  !  It  seems  to  me  you're 
playing  the  idiot  on  purpose,"  said  the  lady,  boiling 
over.  "  Nurse,  give  Trilly  some  water  at  once ! 
I  ask  you,  in  the  Russian  language,  for  how  much 
do  you  wish  to  sell  your  dog  ?  Do  you  understand — 
your  dog,  dog  ?  .  .  ." 

"  The  dog  !  The  do-og  !  "  cried  the  boy,  louder 
than  ever. 

Lodishkin  took  offence,  and  put  his  hat  on  again. 

"  Dogs,  my  lady,  I  do  not  sell,"  said  he  coldly  and 
with  dignity.  "  And,  what  is  more,  madam,  that  dog, 
it  ought  to  be  understood,  has  been  for  us  two  " — he 
pointed  with  his  middle  finger  over  his  shoulder  at 
Sergey — "  has  been  for  us  two,  feeder  and  clother. 
It  has  fed  us,  given  us  drink,  and  clothed  us.  I  could 
not  think  of  anything  more  impossible  than,  for 
example,  that  we  should  sell  it." 

Trilly  all  the  while  was  giving  forth  piercing  shrieks 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  137 

like  the  whistle  of  a  steam-engine.  They  gave  him  a 
glass  of  water,  but  he  splashed  it  furiously  all  over 
the  face  of  his  governess. 

"  Listen,  you  crazy  old  man  !  .  .  .  There  are  no 
things  which  are  not  for  sale,  if  only  a  large  enough 
price  be  offered,"  insisted  the  lady,  pressing  her  palms 
to  her  temples.  "  Miss,  wipe  your  face  quickly  and 
give  me  my  headache  mixture.  Now,  perhaps 
your  dog  costs  a  hundred  roubles  !  What  then, 
two  hundred  ?  Three  hundred  ?  Now  answer,  image. 
Doctor,  for  the  love  of  the  Lord,  do  say  something 
to  him  !  " 

"  Pack  up,  Sergey,"  growled  Lodishkin  morosely. 
"  Image,  im-a-age.  .  .  .  Here,  Arto  !  .  .  ." 

"  Hey,  wait  a  minute,  if  you  please,"  drawled  the 
stout  gentleman  in  the  gold  spectacles  in  an  authori- 
tative bass.  "  You'd  better  not  be  obstinate,  dear 
man,  now  I'm  telling  you.  For  your  dog,  ten  roubles 
would  be  a  beautiful  price,  and  even  for  you  into  the 
bargain.  .  .  .  Just  consider,  ass,  how  much  the  lady 
is  offering  you." 

"  I  most  humbly  thank  you,  sir,"  mumbled  Lodish- 
kin, hitching  his  organ  on  to  his  shoulders.  "  Only 
I  can't  see  how  such  a  piece  of  business  could  ever 
be  done,  as,  for  instance,  to  sell.  Now,  I  should 
think  you'd  better  seek  some  other  dog  somewhere 
else.  ...  So  good  day  to  you.  .  .  .  Now,  Sergey,  go 
ahead  !  " 

"  And  have  you  got  a  passport  ?  "  roared  the 
doctor  in  a  rage.     "  I  know  you — canaille." 

"  Porter  !  Semyon  !  Drive  them  out  !  "  cried  the 
lady,  her  face  distorted  with  rage. 

The    gloomy-looking    porter    in   the   rose-coloured 


138  A  SLAV  SOUL 

blouse  rushed  threateningly  towards  the  artistes. 
A  great  hubbub  arose  on  the  terrace,  Trilly  roaring 
for  all  he  was  worth,  his  mother  sobbing,  the  nurse 
chattering  volubly  to  her  assistant,  the  doctor  booming 
like  an  angry  cockchafer.  But  grandfather  and 
Sergey  had  no  time  to  look  back  or  to  see  how  all 
would  end.  The  poodle  running  in  front  of  them, 
they  got  quickly  to  the  gates,  and  after  them  came 
the  yard  porter,  punching  the  old  man  in  the  back, 
beating  on  his  organ,  and  crying  out  : 

"  Out  you  get,  you  rascals !  Thank  God  that 
you're  not  hanging  by  your  neck,  you  old  scoundrel. 
Remember,  next  time  you  come  here,  we  shan't 
stand  on  ceremony  with  you,  but  lug  you  at  once  to 
the  police  station.     Charlatans  !  " 

For  a  long  time  the  boy  and  the  old  man  walked 
along  silently  together,  but  suddenly,  as  if  they  had 
arranged  the  time  beforehand,  they  both  looked  at 
one  another  and  laughed.  Sergey  simply  burst  into 
laughter,  and  then  Lodishkin  smiled,  seemingly  in 
some  confusion. 

"  Eh,  grandfather  Lodishkin,  you  know  every- 
thing ?  "  teased  Sergey. 

"  Ye-s  brother,  we've  been  nicely  fooled,  haven't 
we,"  said  the  old  organ  grinder,  nodding  his  head. 
"  A  nasty  bit  of  a  boy,  however.  .  .  .  How  they'll 
bring  up  such  a  creature,  the  Lord  only  knows.  Yes, 
if  you  please,  twenty-five  men  and  women  standing 
around  him,  dancing  dances  for  his  sake.  Well,  if 
he'd  been  in  my  power,  Ld  have  taught  him  a  lesson. 
'  Give  me  the  dog,'  says  he.  What  then  ?  If  he  asks 
for  the  moon  out  of  the  sky,  give  him  that  also,  I 
suppose.     Come    here,    Arto,    come    here,    my    little 


THE   WHITE    POODLE  139 

doggie  doggie.      Well,  and  what  money  we've  taken 
to-day — astonishing  !  " 

"  Better  than  money,"  continued  Sergey,  "  one 
lady  gave  us  clothes,  another  a  whole  rouble.  And 
doesn't  grandfather  Lodishkin  know  everything  in 
advance  ? 

"  You  be  quiet,"  growled  the  old  man  good- 
naturedly.  "  Don't  you  remember  how  you  ran  from 
the  porter  ?  I  thought  I  should  never  catch  you  up. 
A  serious  man,  that  porter  !  " 

Leaving  the  villas,  the  wandering  troupe  stepped 
downward  by  a  steep  and  winding  path  to  the  sea. 
At  this  point  the  mountains,  retiring  from  the  shore, 
left  a  beautiful  level  beach  covered  with  tiny  pebbles, 
which  lisped  and  chattered  as  the  waves  turned  them 
over.  Two  hundred  yards  out  to  sea  dolphins  turned 
somersaults,  showing  for  moments  their  curved  and 
glimmering  backs.  Away  on  the  horizon  of  the  wide 
blue  sea,  standing  as  it  were  on  a  lovely  velvet  ribbon 
of  dark  purple,  were  the  sails  of  fishing  boats,  tinted 
to  a  rose  colour  by  the  sunlight. 

"  Here  we  shall  bathe,  grandfather  Lodishkin," 
said  Sergey  decisively.  And  he  took  off  his  trousers 
as  he  walked,  jumping  from  one  leg  to  the  other  to 
do  so.     "  Let  me  help  you  to  take  off  the  organ." 

He  swiftly  undressed,  smacking  his  sunburnt  body 
with  the  palms  of  his  hands,  ran  down  to  the  waves, 
took  a  handful  of  foam  to  throw  over  his  shoulders, 
and  jumped  into  the  sea. 

Grandfather  undressed  without  hurry.  Shielding 
his  eyes  from  the  sun  with  his  hands,  and  wrinkling 
his  brows,  he  looked  at  Sergey  and  grinned  knowingly. 

"He's    not    bad;    the    boy  is    growing,"   thought 


140     .        *  A  SLAV  SOUL 

Lodishkin  to  himself.     "  Plenty  of  bones— all  his  ribs 
showing  ;  but  all  the  same,  he'll  be  a  strong  fellow." 

"  Hey,  Serozhska,  don't  you  get  going  too  far. 
A  sea  pig'll  drag  you  off !  " 

"  If  so,  I'll  catch  it  by  the  tail,"  cried  Sergey  from 
a  distance. 

Grandfather  stood  a  long  time  in  the  sunshine, 
feeling  himself  under  his  armpits.  He  went  down 
to  the  water  very  cautiously,  and  before  going  right 
in,  carefully  wetted  his  bald  red  crown  and  the  sunken 
sides  of  his  body.  He  was  yellow,  wizened  and  feeble, 
his  feet  were  astonishingly  thin,  and  his  back,  with 
sharp  protruding  shoulder-blades,  was  humped  by 
the  long  carrying  of  the  organ. 

"  Look,  grandfather  Lodishkin !  "  cried  Sergey, 
and  he  turned  a  somersault  in  the  water. 

Grandfather,  who  had  now  gone  into  the  water 
up  to  his  middle,  sat  down  with  a  murmur  of 
pleasure,  and  cried  out  to  Sergey  : 

"  Now,  don't  you  play  about,  piggy.  Mind  what  I 
tell  you  or  I'll  give  it  you." 

Arto  barked  unceasingly,  and  jumped  about  the 
shore.  He  was  very  much  upset  to  see  the  boy 
swimming  out  so  far.  "  What's  the  use  of  showing 
off  one's  bravery  ?  "  worried  the  poodle.  "  Isn't 
there  the  earth,  and  isn't  that  good  enough  to  go  on, 
and  much  calmer  ?  " 

He  went  into  the  water  two  or  three  times  himself, 
and  lapped  the  waves  with  his  tongue.  But  he  didn't 
like  the  salt  water,  and  was  afraid  of  the  little  waves 
rolling  over  the  pebbles  towards  him.  He  jumped 
back  to  dry  sand,  and  at  once  set  himself  to  bark  at 
Sergey.     "  Why  these  silly,   silly  tricks  ?      Why  not 


THE   WHITE    POODLE  141 

come  and  sit  down  on  the  beach  by  the  side  of  the  old 
man  ?  Dear,  dear,  what  a  lot  of  anxiety  that  boy 
does  give  us  !  " 

"  Hey,  Serozha,  time  to  come  out,  anyway.  You've 
had  enough,"  cried  the  old  man. 

"In  a  minute,  grandfather  Lodishkin,"  the  boy 
cried  back.  "  Just  look  how  I  do  the  steamboat. 
U-u-u-ukh  !  " 

At  last  he  swam  in  to  the  shore,  but,  before  dressing, 
he  caught  Arto  in  his  arms,  and  returning  with  him 
to  the  water's  edge,  flung  him  as  far  as  he  could.  The 
dog  at  once  swam  back,  leaving  above  the  surface 
of  the  water  his  nostrils  and  floating  ears  alone,  and 
snorting  loudly  and  offendedly.  Reaching  dry  sand, 
he  shook  his  whole  body  violently,  and  clouds  of  water 
flew  on  the  old  man  and  on  Sergey. 

"  Serozha,  boy,  look,  surely  that's  for  us  !  "  said 
Lodishkin  suddenly,  staring  upwards  towards  the  cliff. 

Along  the  downward  path  they  saw  that  same 
gloomy-looking  yard  porter  in  the  rose-coloured  blouse 
with  the  speckled  pattern,  waving  his  arms  and  crying 
out  to  them,  though  they  could  not  make  out  what 
he  was  saying,  the  same  fellow  who,  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago,  had  driven  the  vagabond  troupe  from  the 
villa. 

"  What  does  he  want  ?  "  asked  grandfather  mis- 
trustfully. 

IV 

The  porter  continued  to  cry,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  leap  awkwardly  down  the  steep  path,  the  sleeves 
of  his  blouse  trembling  in  the  wind  and  the  body  of 
it  blown  out  like  a  sail. 


142  A   SLAV   SOUL 

"  0-ho-ho  !     Wait,  you  three  !  " 

"  There's  no  finishing  with  these  people,"  growled 
Lodishkin  angrily.  "  It's  Artoshka  they're  after 
again." 

"  Grandfather,  what  d'you  say  ?  Let's  pitch  into 
him  !  "  proposed  Sergey  bravely. 

"  You  be  quiet  !  Don't  be  rash  !  But  what  sort 
of  people  can  they  be  ?     God  forgive  us.  ..." 

"  I  say,  this  is  what  you've  got  to  do  .  .  .,"  began 
the  panting  porter  from  afar.  "  You'll  sell  that  dog. 
Eh,  what  ?  There's  no  peace  with  the  little  master. 
Roars  like  a  calf  :  '  Give  me,  give  me  the  dog.  .  .  .' 
The  mistress  has  sent.  '  Buy  it,'  says  she,  '  however 
much  you  have  to  pay.'  " 

"  Now  that's  pretty  stupid  on  your  mistress's 
part,"  cried  Lodishkin  angrily,  for  he  felt  considerably 
more  sure  of  himself  here  on  the  shore  than  he  did  in 
somebody  else's  garden.  "  And  I  should  like  to  ask 
how  can  she  be  my  mistress  ?  She's  your  mistress, 
perhaps,  but  to  me  further  off  than  a  third  cousin, 
and  I  can  spit  at  her  if  I  want  to.  And  now,  please, 
for  the  love  of  God  ...  I  pray  you  ...  be  so  good 
as  to  go  away  .  .  .  and  leave  us  alone." 

But  the  porter  paid  no  attention.  He  sat  down  on 
the  pebbles  beside  the  old  man,  and,  awkwardly 
scratching  the  back  of  his  neck  with  his  fingers, 
addressed  him  thus  : 

"  Now,  don't  you  grasp,  fool?  .  .  ." 
"  I    hear    it    from    a    fool,"    interrupted    the    old 
man. 

"  Now,  come  .  .  .  that's  not  the  point.  .  .  .  Just 
put  it  to  yourself.  What's  the  dog  to  you  ?  Choose 
another  puppy  ;   all  your  expense  is  a  stick,  and  there 


THE   WHITE    POODLE  143 

you  have  your  dog  again.     Isn't  that  sense  ?     Don't 
I  speak  the  truth  ?     Eh  ?  " 

Grandfather  meditatively  fastened  the  strap  which 
served  him  as  a  belt.  To  the  obstinate  questions  of 
the  porter  he  replied  with  studied  indifference. 

"  Talk  on,  say  all  you've  got  to  say,  and  then  I'll 
answer  you  at  once." 

"  Then,  brother,  think  of  the  number,"  cried  the 
porter  hotly.  "  Two  hundred,  perhaps  three  hundred 
roubles  in  a  lump  !  Well,  they  generally  give  me 
something  for  my  work  .  .  .  but  just  you  think  of  it. 
Three  whole  hundred  !  Why,  you  know,  you  could 
open  a  grocer's  shop  with  that.  ..." 

Whilst  saying  this  the  porter  plucked  from  his 
pocket  a  piece  of  sausage,  and  threw  it  to  the  poodle. 
Arto  caught  it  in  the  air,  swallowed  it  at  a  gulp,  and 
ingratiatingly  wagged  his  tail. 

"  Finished  ?  "  asked  Lodishkin  sweetly. 
"  Doesn't   take  long  to  say  what   I   had  to   say. 
Give    the    dog,    and    the    money    will    be    in    your 
hands." 

"  So-o,"  drawled  grandfather  mockingly.  "  That 
means  the  sale  of  the  dog,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  What  else  ?  Just  an  ordinary  sale.  You  see,  our 
little  master  is  so  crazy.  That's  what's  the  matter. 
Whatever  he  wants,  he  turns  the  whole  house  upside 
down.  '  Give/  says  he,  and  it  has  to  be  given.  That's 
how  it  is  without  his  father.  When  his  father's 
here  .  .  .  holy  Saints  !  ...  we  all  walk  on  our  heads. 
The  father  is  an  engineer  ;  perhaps  you've  heard  of 
Mr.  Obolyaninof  ?  He  builds  railway  lines  all  over 
Russia.  A  millionaire  !  They've  only  one  boy,  and 
they  spoil  him.     '  I  want  a  live  pony,'  says  he — here's 


144  A  SLAV   SOUL 

a  pony  for  you.  '  I  want  a  boat,'  says  he — here's  a 
real  boat.     There  is  nothing  that  they  refuse  him.  .  .  ." 

"  And  the  moon  ?  " 

"  That  is,  in  what  sense  ?  "  asked  the  porter. 

"  I  say,  has  he  never  asked  for  the  moon  from  the 
sky  ?  " 

"  The  moon.  What  nonsense  is  that  ?  "  said  the 
porter,  turning  red.  "  But  come  now,  we're  agreed, 
aren't  we,  dear  man  ?  " 

By  this  time  grandfather  had  succeeded  in  putting 
on  his  old  green-seamed  jacket,  and  he  drew  himself 
up  as  straight  as  his  bent  back  would  permit. 

"  I'll  ask  you  one  thing,  young  man,"  said  he,  not 
without  dignity.  "  If  you  had  a  brother,  or,  let  us 
say,  a  friend,  that  had  grown  up  with  you  from  child- 
hood— Now  stop,  friend,  don't  throw  sausage  to  the 
dog  .  .  .  better  eat  it  yourself.  .  .  .  You  can't  bribe 
the  dog  with  that,  brother — I  say,  if  you  had  a  friend, 
the  best  and  truest  friend  that  it's  possible  to  have 
.  .  .  one  who  from  childhood  .  .  .  well,  then,  for 
example,  for  how  much  would  you  sell  him  ?  " 

"  I'd  find  a  price  even  for  him  !  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  you'd  find  a  price.  Then  go  and  tell  your 
master  who  builds  the  railroads,"  cried  grandfather 
in  a  loud  voice — "  Go  and  tell  him  that  not  everything 
that  ordinarily  is  for  sale  is  also  to  be  bought.  Yes  ! 
And  you'd  better  not  stroke  the  dog.  That's  to  no 
purpose.  Here,  Arto,  dog,  I'll  give  it  you.  Come 
on,  Sergey." 

"  Oh,  you  old  fool !  "  cried  the  porter  at  last. 

"  Fool ;  yes,  I  was  one  from  birth,  but  you,  bit 
of  rabble,  Judas,  soul-seller  !  "  shouted  Lodishkin. 
"  When  you  see  your  lady-general,  give  her  our  kind 


THE    WHITE    POODLE  145 

respects,  our  deepest  respects.  Sergey,  roll  up  the 
mattress.     Ai,  ai,  my  back,  how  it  aches  !     Come  on." 

"  So-o,  that's  what  it  means,"  drawled  the  porter 
significantly. 

"  Yes.  That's  what  it  is.  Take  it  !  "  answered 
the  old  man  exasperatingly.  The  troupe  then  wan- 
dered off  along  the  shore,  following  on  the  same  road. 
Once,  looking  back  accidentally,  Sergey  noticed  that 
the  porter  was  following  them ;  his  face  seemed 
cogitative  and  gloomy,  his  cap  was  over  his  eyes,  and 
he  scratched  with  five  fingers  his  shaggy  carrotty- 
haired  neck. 


A  certain  spot  between  Miskhor  and  Aloopka  had 
long  since  been  put  down  by  Lodishkin  as  a  splendid 
place  for  having  lunch,  and  it  was  to  this  that  they 
journeyed  now.  Not  far  from  a  bridge  over  a  rushing 
mountain  torrent  there  wandered  from  the  cliff  side 
a  cold  chattering  stream  of  limpid  water.  This  was 
in  the  shade  of  crooked  oak  trees  and  thick  hazel 
bushes.  The  stream  had  made  itself  a  shallow  basin 
in  the  earth,  and  from  this  overflowed,  in  tiny  snake- 
like streamlets,  glittering  in  the  grass  like  living 
silver.  Every  morning  and  evening  one  might  see 
here  pious  Turks  making  their  ablutions  and  saying 
their  prayers. 

"  Our  sins  are  heavy  and  our  provisions  are 
meagre,"  said  grandfather,  sitting  in  the  shade  of  a 
hazel  bush.  "  Now,  Serozha,  come  along.  Lord,  give 
Thy  blessing  !  " 

He  pulled  out  from  a  sack  some  bread,  some 
tomatoes,  a  lump  of  Bessarabian  cheese,  and  a  bottle 


146  A  SLAV  SOUL 

of  olive  oil.  He  brought  out  a  little  bag  of  salt,  an 
old  rag  tied  round  with  string.  Before  eating,  the 
old  man  crossed  himself  many  times  and  whispered 
something.  Then  he  broke  the  crust  of  bread  into 
three  unequal  parts  :  the  largest  he  gave  to  Sergey 
(he  is  growing — he  must  eat),  the  next  largest  he  gave 
to  the  poodle,  and  the  smallest  he  took  for  himself. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  the  Son.  The 
eyes  of  all  wait  upon  Thee,  O  Lord,"  whispered  he, 
making  a  salad  of  the  tomatoes.     "  Eat,  Serozha  !  " 

They  ate  slowly,  not  hurrying,  in  silence,  as  people 
eat  who  work.  All  thaf  was  audible  was  the  working 
of  three  pairs  of  jaws.  Arto,  stretched  on  his  stomach, 
ate  his  little  bit  at  one  side,  gnawing  the  crust  of  bread, 
which  he  held  between  his  front  paws.  Grandfather 
and  Sergey  alternately  dipped  their  tomatoes  in  the 
salt,  and  made  their  lips  and  hands  red  with  the  juice. 
When  they  had  finished  they  drank  water  from  the 
stream,  filling  a  little  tin  can  and  putting  it  to  their 
mouths.  It  was  fine  water,  and  so  cold  that  the  mug 
went  cloudy  on  the  outside  from  the  moisture  condens- 
ing on  it.  The  mid-day  heat  and  the  long  road  had 
tired  the  performers,  for  they  had  been  up  with  the 
sun.  Grandfather's  eyes  closed  involuntarily.  Sergey 
yawned  and  stretched  himself. 

"  Well  now,  little  brother,  what  if  we  were  to  lie 
down  and  sleep  for  a  minute  or  so  ?  "  asked  grand- 
father. "One  last  drink  of  water.  Ukh !  Fine ! "  cried 
he,  taking  his  lips  from  the  can  and  breathing  heavily, 
the  bright  drops  of  water  running  from  his  beard  and 
whiskers.  "  If  I  were  Tsar  I'd  drink  that  water 
every  day  .  .  .  from  morning  to  night.  Here,  Arto  ! 
Well,  God  has  fed  us  and  nobody  has  seen  us,  or  if 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  147 

anybody  has  seen  us  he  hasn't  taken  offence.  .  .  . 
Okh — okh — okhonush — kee — ee  !  " 

The  old  man  and  the  boy  lay  down  side  by  side  in 
the  grass,  making  pillows  for  their  heads  of  their 
jackets.  The  dark  leaves  of  the  rugged  many- 
branching  oaks  murmured  above  them  ;  occasionally 
through  the  shade  gleamed  patches  of  bright  blue  sky  ; 
the  little  streams  running  from  stone  to  stone  chattered 
monotonously  and  stealthily  as  if  they  were  putting 
someone  to  sleep  by  sorcery.  Grandfather  turned 
from  side  to  side,  muttered  something  to  Sergey, 
but  to  Sergey  his  voice  seemed  far  away  in  a  soft  and 
sleepy  distance,  and  the  words  were  strange,  as  those 
spoken  in  a  fairy  tale. 

"  First  of  all — I  buy  you  a  costume,  rose  and  gold 
.  .  .  slippers  also  of  rose-coloured  satin  ...  in  Kief  or 
Kharkof,  or,  perhaps,  let  us  say  in  the  town  of  Odessa 
— there,  brother,  there  are  circuses,  if  you  like  !  .  .  . 
Endless  lanterns  ...  all  electricity.  .  .  .  People, 
perhaps  five  thousand,  perhaps  more  .  .  .  how  should 
I  know.  We  should  have  to  make  up  a  name  for  you 
— an  Italian  name,  of  course.  What  can  one  do  with  a 
name  like  Esteepheyef,  or  let  us  say,  Lodishkin  ? 
Quite  absurd  !  No  imagination  in  them  whatever. 
So  we'd  let  you  go  on  the  placards  as  Antonio,  or 
perhaps,  also  quite  good,  Enrico  or  Alphonso.  ..." 

The  boy  heard  no  more.  A  sweet  and  gentle 
slumber  settled  down  upon  him  and  took  possession 
of  his  body.  And  grandfather  fell  asleep,  losing 
suddenly  the  thread  of  his  favourite  after-dinner 
thoughts,  his  dream  of  Sergey's  magnificent  acrobatic 
future.  Once,  however,  in  his  dream  it  appeared  to 
him  that   Arto   was  growling   at   somebody.     For  a 

L  2 


148  A  SLAV  SOUL 

moment  through  his  dreamy  brain  there  passed  the 
half-conscious  and  alarming  remembrance  of  the 
porter  in  the  rose-coloured  blouse,  but  overcome  with 
sleep,  tiredness  and  heat,  he  could  not  get  up,  but 
only  idly,  with  closed  eyes,  cried  out  to  the  dog  : 

"  Arto  .  .  .  where're  you  going  ?  I'll  g-give  it  you, 
gipsy  !  " 

But  at  once  he  forgot  what  he  was  talking  about, 
and  his  mind  fell  back  into  the  heaviness  of  sleep  and 
vague  dreams. 

At  last  the  voice  of  Sergey  woke  him  up,  for  the 
boy  was  running  to  and  fro  just  beyond  the  stream, 
shouting  loudly  and  whistling,  calling  anxiously  for 
the  dog. 

"  Here,  Arto  !  Come  back  !  Pheu,  pheu  !  Come 
back,  Arto  !  " 

"  What  are  you  howling  about,  Sergey  ?  "  cried 
Lodishkin  in  a  tone  of  displeasure,  trying  to  bring  the 
circulation  back  to  a  sleeping  arm. 

"  We've  lost  the  dog  whilst  we  slept.  That's  what 
we've  done,"  answered  the  boy  in  a  harsh,  scolding 
note.     "  The  dog's  lost." 

He  whistled  again  sharply,  and  cried  : 

"  Arto-0-0  !  " 

"  Ah,  you're  just  making  up  nonsense  !  He'll 
return,"  said  grandfather.  But  all  the  same,  he  also 
got  up  and  began  to  call  the  dog  in  an  angry,  sleepy, 
old  man's  falsetto  : 

"  Arto  !     Here,  dog  !  " 

The  old  man  hurriedly  and  tremblingly  ran  across 
the  bridge  and  began  to  go  upward  along  the  high- 
way, calling  the  dog  as  he  went.  In  front  of  him 
lay  the  bright,  white  stripe  of  the  road,   level   and 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  149 

clear  for  half  a  mile,  but  on  it  not  a  figure,  not  a 
shadow. 

"  Arto  !  Ar-tosh-enka  !  "  wailed  the  old  man  in  a 
piteous  voice,  but  suddenly  he  stopped  calling  him, 
bent  down  on  the  roadside  and  sat  on  his  heels. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  it  is,"  said  the  old  man  in  a 
failing  voice.  "  Sergey  !  Serozha  !  Come  here,  my 
boy  !  " 

"  Now  what  do  you  want  ?  "  cried  the  boy  rudely. 
"  What  have  you  found  now  ?  Found  yesterday  lying 
by  the  roadside,  eh  ?  " 

"  Serozha  .  .  .  what  is  it  ?  .  .  .  What  do  you  make 
of  it  ?  Do  you  see  what  it  is  ?  "  asked  the  old  man, 
scarcely  above  a  whisper.  He  looked  at  the  boy  in  a 
piteous  and  distracted  way,  and  his  arms  hung  help- 
lessly at  his  sides. 

In  the  dust  of  the  road  lay  a  comparatively  large 
half-eaten  lump  of  sausage,  and  about  it  in  all  directions 
were  printed  a  dog's  paw-marks. 

"  He's  drawn  it  off,  the  scoundrel,  lured  it  away," 
whispered  grandfather  in  a  frightened  shiver,  still 
sitting  on  his  heels.  "  It's  he ;  no  one  else,  it's  quite 
clear.  Don't  you  remember  how  he  threw  the  sausage 
to  Arto  down  by  the  sea  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  quite  clear,"  repeated  Sergey  sulkily. 

Grandfather's  wide-open  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
quickly  overflowing  down  his  cheeks.  He  hid  them 
with  his  hands. 

"  Now,  what  can  we  do  Serozhenka  ?  Eh,  boy  ? 
What  can  we  do  now  ?  "  asked  the  old  man,  rocking 
to  and  fro  and  weeping  helplessly. 

"  Wha-at  to  do,  wha-at  to  do  !  "  teased  Sergey. 
"  Get  up,  grandfather  Lodishkin  ;  let's  be  going  !  " 


150  A   SLAV  SOUL 

"  Yes,  let  us  go  !  "  repeated  the  old  man  sadly  and 
humbly,  raising  himself  from  the  ground.  "  We'd 
better  be  going,  I  suppose,  Serozhenka." 

Losing  patience,  Sergey  began  to  scold  the  old  man 
as  if  he  were  a  little  boy. 

"  That's  enough  drivelling,  old  man,  stupid  !  Who 
ever  heard  of  people  taking  away  other  folks'  dogs  in 
this  way  ?  It's  not  the  law.  What-ye  blinking  your 
eyes  at  me  for  ?  Is  what  I  say  untrue  ?  Let  us  go 
simply  and  say,  '  Give  us  back  the  dog  !  '  and  if  they 
won't  give  it,  then  to  the  courts  with  it,  and  there's  an 
end  of  it." 

"  To  the  courts  .  .  .  yes  ...  of  course.  .  .  . 
That's  correct,  to  the  courts,  of  course  .  .  .  ."repeated 
Lodishkin,  with  a  senseless  bitter  smile.  But  his 
eyes  looked  hither  and  thither  in  confusion.  "  To 
the  courts  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  only  you  know,  Serozhenka 
...  it  wouldn't  work  .  .  .  we'd  never  get  to  the 
courts.  ..." 

"  How  not  work  ?  The  law  is  the  same  for  every- 
body. What  have  they  got  to  say  for  themselves  ?  " 
interrupted  the  boy  impatiently. 

"  Now,  Serozha,  don't  do  that  .  .  .  don't  be  angry 
with  me.  They  won't  give  us  back  the  dog."  At 
this  point  grandfather  lowered  his  voice  in  a  mysterious 
way.  "  I  fear,  on  account  of  the  passport.  Didn't 
you  hear  what  the  gentleman  said  up  there  ?  '  Have 
you  a  passport  ?  '  he  says.  Well,  and  there,  you  see, 
I," — here  grandfather  made  a  wry  and  seemingly 
frightened  face,  and  whispered  barely  audibly — "  I'm 
living  with  somebody  else's  passport,  Serozha." 

"  How  somebody  else's  ?  " 

"  Somebody  else's.     There's  no  more  about  it,     I 


THE   WHITE    POODLE  151 

lost  my  own  at  Taganrog.  Perhaps  somebody  stole  it. 
For  two  years  after  that  I  wandered  about,  hid  myself, 
gave  bribes,  wrote  petitions  ...  at  last  I  saw  there 
was  no  getting  out  of  it.  I  had  to  live  hke  a  hare — 
afraid  of  everything.  But  once  in  Odessa,  in  a  night 
house,  a  Greek  remarked  to  me  the  following  : — 
'  What  you  say,'  says  he,  '  is  nonsense.  Put  twenty- 
five  roubles  on  the  table,  and  I'll  give  you  a  passport 
that'll  last  you  till  doomsday.'  I  worried  my  brain 
about  that.  '  I'll  lose  my  head  for  this,'  I  thought. 
However,  '  Give  it  me,'  said  I.  And  from  that  time, 
my  dear  boy,  I've  been  going  about  the  world  with 
another  man's  passport." 

"  Ah,  grandfather,  grandfather  !  "  sighed  Sergey, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "I'm  sorry  about  the  dog. 
It's  a  very  fine  dog,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"  Serozhenka,  my  dariing,"  cried  the  old  man 
trembling.  "  If  only  I  had  a  real  passport.  Do  you 
think  it  would  matter  to  me  even  if  they  were 
generals?  I'd  take  them  by  the  throat  !  .  .  .  How's 
this  ?  One  minute,  if  you  please  !  What  right  have 
you  to  steal  other  people's  dogs  ?  What  law  is  there 
for  that  ?  But  now  there's  a  stopper  on  us,  Serozha. 
If  I  go  to  the  pohce  station  the  first  thing  will  be, 
'  Show  us  your  passport !  Are  you  a  citizen  of  Samara, 
by  name  Martin  Lodishkin  ?  '  I,  your  Excellency, 
dear  me — I,  little  brother,  am  not  Lodishkin  at  all, 
and  not  a  citizen,  but  a  peasant.  Ivan  Dudkin  is  my 
name.  And  who  that  Lodishkin  might  be,  God  alone 
knows  !  How  can  I  tell  ?  Perhaps  a  thief  or  an 
escaped  convict.  Perhaps  even  a  murderer.  No, 
Serozha,  we  shouldn't  effect  anything  that  way. 
Nothing  at  all.  ..." 


152  A  SLAV  SOUL 

Grandfather  choked,  and  tears  trickled  once  more 
over  his  sunburnt  wrinkles.  Sergey,  who  had  listened 
to  the  old  man  in  silence,  his  brows  tightly  knit,  his 
face  pale  with  agitation,  suddenly  stood  up  and  cried  : 
"  Come  on,  grandfather.  To  the  devil  with  the  pass- 
port !  I  suppose  we  don't  intend  to  spend  the  night 
here  on  the  high  road  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  my  darling,"  said  the  old  man, 
trembling.  "  'Twas  a  clever  dog  .  .  .  that  Arto- 
shenka  of  ours.     We  shan't  find  such  another.  .  .  ." 

"  All  r.ght,  all  right.  Get  up  !  "  cried  Sergey 
imperiously.  "  Now  let  me  knock  the  dust  off  you. 
I  feel  quite  worn  out,  grandfather." 

They  worked  no  more  that  day.  Despite  his 
youthful  years,  Sergey  well  understood  the  fateful 
meaning  of  the  dreadful  word  "  passport."  So  he 
sought  no  longer  to  get  Arto  back,  either  through  the 
courts  or  in  any  other  decisive  way.  And  as  he  walked 
along  the  road  with  grandfather  towards  the  inn, 
where  they  should  sleep,  his  face  took  on  a  new, 
obstinate,  concentrated  expression,  as  if  he  had  just 
thought  out  something  extraordinarily  serious  and 
great. 

Without  actually  expressing  their  intention,  the 
two  wanderers  made  a  considerable  detour  in  order 
to  pass  once  more  by  Friendship  Villa,  and  they 
stopped  for  a  little  while  outside  the  gates,  in  the 
vague  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  Arto,  or  of  hearing 
his  bark  from  afar.  But  the  iron  gates  of  the  magnifi- 
cent villa  were  bolted  and  locked,  and  an  important, 
undisturbed  and  solemn  stillness  reigned  over  the 
shady  garden  under  the  sad  and  mighty  cypresses. 

"  Peo-ple !  "    cried   the   old   man   in   a   quavering 


THE   WHITE    POODLE  153 

voice,  putting  into  that  one  word  all  the  burning  grief 
that  filled  his  heart. 

"  Ah,  that's  enough.  Come  on  !  "  cried  the  boy 
roughly,  pulhng  his  companion  by  the  sleeve. 

"  Serozhenka !  Don't  you  think  there's  a  chance 
that  Artoshenka  might  run  away  from  them?  " 
sighed  the  old  man.  "  Eh  !  What  do  you  think, 
dear  ?  " 

But  the  boy  did  not  answer  the  old  man.  He  went 
ahead  in  firm  large  strides,  his  eyes  obstinately  fixed 
on  the  road,  his  brows  obstinately  frowning. 

VI 

They  reached  Aloopka  in  silence.  Grandfather 
muttered  to  himself  and  sighed  the  whole  way.  Sergey 
preserved  in  his  face  an  angry  and  resolute  expression. 
They  stopped  for  the  night  at  a  dirty  Turkish  coffee- 
house, bearing  the  splendid  name  of  Eeldeez,  which 
means  in  Turkish,  a  star.  In  the  same  room  with 
them  slept  Greek  stone-breakers,  Turkish  ditch-diggers, 
a  gang  of  Russian  workmen,  and  several  dark-faced, 
mysterious  tramps,  the  sort  of  which  there  are  so 
many  wandering  about  Southern  Russia.  Directly 
the  coffee-house  closed  they  stretched  themselves  out 
on  the  benches  along  the  length  of  the  walls,  or  simply 
upon  the  floor,  and  the  more  experienced  placed  their 
possessions  and  their  clothes  in  a  bundle  under  their 
heads. 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  Sergey,  who  had 
been  lying  side  by  side  with  grandfather  on  the  floor, 
got  up  stealthily  and  began  to  dress  himself  without 
noise.  Through  the  wide  window-panes  poured  the 
full  hght  of  the  moon,  falhng  on  the  floor  to  make  a 


154  A   SLAV  SOUL 

trembling  carpet  of  silver,  and  giving  to  the  faces  of 
the  sleepers  an  expression  of  suffering  and  death. 

"  Where's  you  going  to,  zis  time  o'  night  ?  "  cried 
the  owner  of  the  coffee-house,  Ibrahim,  a  young 
Turk  lying  at  the  door  of  the  shop. 

"  Let  me  pass  ;  it's  necessary.  I've  got  to  go  out," 
answered  Sergey  in  a  harsh,  business-like  tone.  "  Get 
up,  Turco  !  " 

Yawning  and  stretching  himself,  Ibrahim  got  up 
and  opened  the  door,  clicking  his  tongue  reproachfully. 
The  narrow  streets  of  the  Tartar  hazar  were  enveloped 
in  a  dense  dark-blue  mist,  which  covered  with  a  tooth- 
shaped  design  the  whole  cobbled  roadway  ;  one  side 
of  the  street  lay  in  shade,  the  other,  with  all  its  white- 
walled  houses,  was  illumined  by  the  moonlight. 
Dogs  were  barking  at  distant  points  of  the  village. 
Somewhere  on  the  upper  high  road  horses  were  trotting, 
and  the  metallic  clink  of  their  hoofs  sounded  in  the 
night  stillness. 

Passing  the  white  mosque  with  its  green  cupola, 
surrounded  by  its  grove  of  silent  cypresses,  Sergey 
tripped  along  a  narrow,  crooked  lane  to  the  great 
highway.  In  order  that  he  might  run  quickly  the 
boy  was  practically  in  his  undergarments  only.  The 
moon  shone  on  him  from  behind,  and  his  shadow  ran 
ahead  in  a  strange  foreshortened  silhouette.  There 
were  mysterious  shaggy  shrubs  on  each  side  of  the 
road,  a  bird  was  crying  monotonously  from  the  bushes 
in  a  gentle,  tender  tone  "  Splew !  Splew  !  "  '^  and 
it  seemed  as  if  it  thought  itself  to  be  a  sentry  in  the 
night  silence,  guarding  some  melancholy  secret,  and 
powerlessly  struggling  with  sleep  and  tiredness,  com- 
1  The  word  "  splew  "  is  Russian  for  "  I  sleep." 


THE   WHITE    POODLE  155 

plaining  hopelessly,  quietly,  to  someone,  "  Splew, 
splew,  I  sleep,  I  sleep." 

And  over  the  dark  bushes,  over  the  blue  head-dress 
of  the  distant  forests,  rose  with  its  two  peaks  to  the 
sky,  Ai-Petri — so  light,  so  clear-cut,  so  ethereal,  as  if  it 
were  something  cut  from  a  gigantic  piece  of  silver 
cardboard  in  the  sky.  Sergey  felt  a  little  depressed 
by  the  majestic  silence  in  which  his  footsteps  sounded 
so  distinctly  and  daringly,  but  at  the  same  time  there 
rose  in  his  heart  a  sort  of  tickhsh,  head-whirling, 
spirit  of  adventure.  At  a  turn  of  the  road  the  sea 
suddenly  opened  before  him,  immense  and  calm, 
quietly  and  solemnly  breaking  on  the  shore.  From  the 
horizon  to  the  beach  stretched  a  narrow,  a  quivering, 
silver  roadway  ;  in  the  midst  of  the  sea  this  roadway 
was  lost,  and  only  here  and  there  the  traces  of  it 
glittered,  but  suddenly  nearer  the  shore  it  became  a 
wide  flood  of  living,  glimmering  metal,  ornamenting 
the  coast  like  a  belt  of  deep  lace. 

Sergey  shpped  noiselessly  through  the  wooden 
gateway  leading  to  the  park.  There,  under  the  dense 
foliage  of  the  trees,  it  was  quite  dark.  From  afar 
sounded  the  ceaseless  murmur  of  mountain  streams, 
and  one  could  feel  their  damp  cold  breath.  The 
wooden  planks  of  the  bridge  clacked  soundingly  as  he 
ran  across ;  the  water  beneath  looked  dark  and 
dreadful.  In  a  moment  he  saw  in  front  of  him  the 
high  gates  with  their  lace  pattern  of  iron,  and  the 
creeping  gloxinia  hanging  over  them.  The  moonlight, 
pouring  from  a  gap  in  the  trees,  outlined  the  lacework 
of  the  iron  gates  with,  as  it  were,  a  gentle  phospho- 
rescence. On  the  other  side  of  the  gates  it  was  dark, 
and  there  was  a  terrifying  stillness. 


156  A   SLAV  SOUL 

Sergey  hesitated  for  some  moments,  feeling  in  his 
soul  some  doubt,  even  a  little  fear.  But  he  conquered 
his  feelings  and  whispered  obstinately  to  himself  : 

"  All  the  same  ;  Lm  going  to  climb  in,  all  the  same  1  " 

The  elegant  cast-iron  design  furnished  solid  stepping 
places  and  holding  places  for  the  muscular  arms  and 
feet  of  the  climber.  But  over  the  gateway,  at  a 
considerable  height,  and  fitting  to  the  gates,  was  a 
broad  archway  of  stone.  Sergey  felt  all  over  this 
with  his  hands,  and  climbed  up  on  to  it,  lay  on  his 
stomach,  and  tried  to  let  himself  down  on  the  other 
side.  He  hung  by  his  hands,  but  could  find  no  catching 
place  for  his  feet.  The  stone  archway  stood  out  too 
far  from  the  gate  for  his  legs  to  reach,  so  he  dangled 
there,  and  as  he  couldn't  get  back,  his  body  grew 
limp  and  heavy,  and  terror  possessed  his  soul. 

At  last  he  could  hold  on  no  longer  ;  his  fingers 
gave,  and  he  slipped  and  fell  violently  to  the  ground. 

He  heard  the  gravel  crunch  under  him,  and  felt  a 
sharp  pain  in  his  knees.  He  lay  crouching  on  all 
fours  for  some  moments,  stunned  by  the  fall.  He 
felt  that  in  a  minute  out  would  come  the  gloomy- 
looking  porter,  raise  a  cry  and  make  a  fearful  to  do.  .  .  . 
But  the  same  brooding  and  self-important  silence 
reigned  in  the  garden  as  before.  Only  a  sort  of 
strange  monotonous  buzzing  sounded  everywhere 
about  the  villa  and  the  estate. 

"  Zhu  .   .  .  zhzhu  .  .   .  zhzhu.  .   .  ." 

"  Ah,  that's  the  noise  in  my  ears,"  guessed  Sergey. 
When  he  got  on  his  feet  again  and  looked  round,  all 
the  garden  had  become  dreadful  and  mysterious,  and 
beautiful  as  in  a  fairy  tale,  a  scented  dream.  On  the 
flower-beds  the  flowers,  barely  visible  in  the  darkness, 


THE   WHITE    POODLE  157 

leaned  toward  one  another  as  if  communicating  a 
vague  alarm.  The  magnificent  dark-scented  cypresses 
nodded  pensively,  and  seemed  to  reflect  reproachfully 
over  all.  And  beyond  a  little  stream  the  tired  little 
bird  struggled  with  its  desire  to  slumber,  and  cried 
submissively  and  plaintively,  "  Splew,  splew,  I  sleep, 
I  sleep." 

Sergey  could  not  recognise  the  place  in  the  darkness 
for  the  confusion  of  the  paths  and  the  shadows.  He 
wandered  for  some  time  on  the  crunching  gravel 
before  he  found  the  house. 

He  had  never  in  his  whole  life  felt  such  complete 
helplessness  and  torturesome  loneliness  and  desolation 
as  he  did  now.  The  immense  house  felt  as  if  it  must 
be  full  of  concealed  enemies  watching  him  with  wicked 
glee,  peering  at  him  from  the  dark  windows.  Every 
moment  he  expected  to  hear  some  sort  of  signal  or 
wrathful  fierce  command. 

"...  Only  not  in  the  house  ...  he  couldn't 
possibly  be  in  the  house,"  whispered  the  boy  to  himself 
as  in  a  dream  ;  "  if  they  put  him  in  the  house  he  would 
begin  to  howl,  and  they'd  soon  get  tired  of  it.  .  .  ." 

He  walked  right  round  the  house.  At  the  back, 
in  the  wide  yard,  were  several  outhouses  more  or  less 
simple  and  capacious,  evidently  designed  for  the 
accommodation  of  servants.  There  was  not  a  light 
in  any  of  them,  and  none  in  the  great  house  itself  ; 
only  the  moon  saw  itself  darkly  in  the  dull  dead 
windows.  "  I  shan't  ever  get  away  from  here ;  no, 
never  !  "  thought  Sergey  to  himself  despairingly,  and 
just  for  a  moment  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
sleeping  tavern  and  grandfather  and  the  old  organ, 
and  to  the  place  where  they  had  slept  in  the  afternoon, 


158  A  SLAV  SOUL 

to  their  life  of  the  road,  and  he  whispered  softly  to 
himself,  "  Never,  never  any  more  of  that  again," 
and  so  thinking,  his  fear  changed  to  a  sort  of  calm 
and  despairing  conviction. 

But  then  suddenly  he  became  aware  of  a  faint,  far- 
off  whimpering.  The  boy  stood  still  as  if  spellbound, 
not  daring  to  move.  The  whimpering  sound  was 
repeated.  It  seemed  to  come  from  the  stone  cellar 
near  which  Sergey  was  standing,  and  which  was 
ventilated  by  a  window  with  no  glass,  just  four  rough 
square  openings.  Stepping  across  a  flower-bed,  the 
boy  went  up  to  the  wall,  pressed  his  face  to  one  of  the 
openings,  and  whistled.  He  heard  a  slight  cautious 
movement  somewhere  in  the  depths,  and  then  all  was 
silent. 

"  Arto,  Artoshka  !  "  cried  Sergey,  in  a  trembling 
whisper. 

At  this  there  burst  out  at  once  a  frantic  burst  of 
barking,  filling  the  whole  garden  and  echoing  from  all 
sides.  In  this  barking  there  was  expressed,  not  only 
joyful  welcome,  but  piteous  complaint  and  rage,  and 
physical  pain.  One  could  hear  how  the  dog  was 
tugging  and  pulling  at  something  in  the  dark  cellar, 
trying  to  get  free. 

"  Arto  !  Doggikin  !  .  .  .  Artoshenka  !  .  .  ."  re- 
peated the  boy  in  a  sobbing  voice. 

"  Peace,  cursed  one  !  Ah,  you  convict  !  "  cried  a 
brutal  bass  voice  from  below. 

There  was  a  sound  of  beating  from  the  cellar.  The 
dog  gave  vent  to  a  long  howl. 

"  Don't  dare  to  kill  him  !  Kill  the  dog  if  you  dare, 
you  villain  !  "  cried  Sergey,  quite  beside  himself, 
scratching  the  stone  wall  with  his  nails. 


THE   WHITE   POODLE  159 

What  happened  after  that  Sergey  only  remembered 
confusedly,  like  something  he  had  experienced  in  a 
dreadful  nightmare.  The  door  of  the  cellar  opened 
wide  with  a  noise,  and  out  rushed  the  porter.  He  was 
only  in  his  pantaloons,  bare-footed,  bearded,  pale  from 
the  bright  light  of  the  moon,  which  was  shining  straight 
in  his  face.  To  Sergey  he  seemed  like  a  giant  or  an 
enraged  monster,  escaped  from  a  fairy  tale. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?  I  shall  shoot.  Thieves  ! 
Robbers  !  "  thundered  the  voice  of  the  porter. 

At  that  moment,  however,  there  rushed  from  the 
door  of  the  cellar  out  into  the  darkness  Arto,  with  a 
broken  cord  hanging  from  his  neck. 

There  was  no  question  of  the  boy  following  the  dog. 
The  sight  of  the  porter  filled  him  with  supernatural 
terror,  tied  his  feet,  and  seemed  to  paralyse  his  whole 
body.  Fortunately,  this  state  of  nerves  didn't  last 
long.  Almost  involuntarily  Sergey  gave  vent  to  a 
piercing  and  despairing  shriek,  and  he  took  to  his  heels 
at  random,  not  looking  where  he  was  going,  and 
absolutely  forgetting  himself  from  fear. 

He  went  off  like  a  bird,  his  feet  striking  the  ground 
as  if  they  had  suddenly  become  two  steel  springs,  and 
by  his  side  ran  Arto,  joyfully  and  effusively  barking. 
After  them  came  the  porter,  heavily,  shouting  and 
swearing  at  them  as  he  went. 

Sergey  was  making  for  the  gate,  but  suddenly  he 
had  an  intuition  that  there  was  no  road  for  him  that 
way.  Along  the  white  stone  wall  of  the  garden  was 
a  narrow  track  in  the  shelter  of  the  cypress  trees, 
and  Sergey  flung  himself  along  this  path,  obedient  to 
the  one  feeling  of  fright.  The  sharp  needles  of  the 
cypress  trees,  pregnant  with  the  smell  of  pitch,  struck 


i6o  A   SLAV  SOUL 

him  in  the  face.  He  fell  over  some  roots  and  hurt 
his  arm  so  that  the  blood  came,  but  jumped  up  at 
once,  not  even  noticing  the  pain,  and  went  on  as  fast 
as  ever,  bent  double,  and  still  followed  by  Arto. 

So  he  ran  along  this  narrow  corridor,  with  the  wall 
on  one  side  and  the  closely  ranged  file  of  cypresses 
on  the  other,  ran  as  might  a  crazy  little  forest  animal 
feeling  itself  in  an  endless  trap.  His  mouth  grew  dry, 
his  breathing  was  like  needles  in  his  breast,  yet  all 
the  time  the  noise  of  the  following  porter  was  audible, 
and  the  boy,  losing  his  head,  ran  back  to  the  gate 
again  and  then  once  more  up  the  narrow  pathway, 
and  back  again. 

At  last  Sergey  ran  himself  tired.  Instead  of  the 
wild  terror,  he  began  to  feel  a  cold,  deadly  melancholy, 
a  tired  indifference  to  danger.  He  sat  down  under  a 
tree,  and  pressed  his  tired-out  body  to  the  trunk  and 
closed  his  eyes.  Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  heavy 
steps  of  the  enemy.  Arto  whimpered  softly,  putting 
his  nose  between  the  boy's  knees. 

Two  steps  from  where  Sergey  sat  a  big  branch  of 
a  tree  bent  downward.  The  boy,  raising  his  eyes 
accidentally,  was  suddenly  seized  with  joy  and  jumped 
to  his  feet  at  a  bound,  for  he  noticed  that  at  the  place 
where  he  was  sitting  the  wall  was  very  low,  not  more 
than  a  yard  and  a  half  in  height.  The  top  was 
plastered  with  lime  and  broken  bottle-glass,  but 
Sergey  did  not  give  that  a  thought.  In  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  he  grabbed  Arto  by  the  body,  and  lifting 
him  up  put  him  with  his  fore-legs  on  the  top  of  the 
wall.  The  clever  poodle  understood  perfectly,  clam- 
bered on  to  the  top,  wagged  his  tail  and  barked 
triumphantly. 


THE    WHITE    POODLE  i6i 

Sergey  followed  him,  making  use  of  the  branches 
of  the  cypress,  and  he  had  hardly  got  on  to  the 
top  of  the  wall  before  he  caught  sight  of  a  large, 
shadowy  face.  Two  supple,  agile  bodies — the  dog's 
and  the  boy's  —  went  quickly  and  softly  to  the 
bottom,  on  to  the  road,  and  following  them,  like 
a  dirty  stream,  came  the  vile,  malicious  abuse  of  the 
porter. 

But  whether  it  was  that  the  porter  was  less  sure 
on  his  feet  than  our  two  friends,  or  was  tired  with 
running  round  the  garden,  or  had  simply  given  up 
hope  of  overtaking  them,  he  followed  them  no  further. 
Nevertheless,  they  ran  on  as  fast  as  they  could  without 
resting,  strong,  light-footed,  as  if  the  joy  of  deliverance 
had  given  them  wings.  The  poodle  soon  began  to 
exhibit  his  accustomed  frivolity.  Sergey  often  looked 
back  fearfully  over  his  shoulders,  but  Arto  leapt  on 
him,  wagging  his  ears  ecstatically,  and  waving  the 
bit  of  cord  that  was  hanging  from  his  neck,  actually 
licking  Sergey's  face  with  his  long  tongue.  The  boy 
became  calm  only  by  the  time  they  got  to  the  spring 
where  the  afternoon  before  grandfather  and  he  had 
made  their  lunch.  There  both  the  boy  and  the  dog 
put  their  lips  to  the  cold  stream,  and  drank  long  and 
eagerly  of  the  fresh  and  pleasant  water.  They  got 
in  one  another's  way  with  their  heads,  and  thinking 
they  had  quenched  their  thirst,  yet  returned  to  the 
basin  to  drink  more,  and  would  not  stop.  When 
at  last  they  got  away  from  the  spot  the  water  rolled 
about  in  their  overfull  insides  as  they  ran.  The 
danger  past,  all  the  terrors  of  the  night  explored, 
they  felt  gay  now,  and  light-hearted,  going  along  the 
white  road  brightly  lit  up  by  the  moon,  going  through 

S.S.  M 


i62  A  SLAV  SOUL 

the  dark  shrubs,  now  wet  with  morning  dew,   and 

exhaling^^the^sweet  scent  of  freshened  leaves. 
At  the  door  of  the    coffee-house  Eeldeez,    Ibrahim 

met  the  boy  and  whispered  reproachfully  : 

"  Where's  you  been  a-roving,  boy  ?     Where's  you 

been  ?     No,  no,  no,  zat's  not  good.  .  .  ." 

Sergey    did   not    wish    to    wake    grandfather,    but 

Arto  did  it  for  him.  He  at  once  found  the  old  man 
in  the  midst  of  the  other  people  sleeping  on  the  floor, 
and  quite  forgetting  himself,  licked  him  all  over  his 
cheeks  and  eyes  and  nose  and  mouth,  yelping  joyfully. 
Grandfather  awoke,  saw  the  broken  cord  hanging 
from  the  poodle's  neck,  saw  the  boy  lying  beside  him 
covered  with  dust,  and  understood  all.  He  asked 
Sergey  to  explain,  but  got  no  answer.  The  little 
boy  was  asleep,  his  arms  spread  out  on  the  floor,  his 
mouth  wide  open. 


X 

THE    ELEPHANT 


The  little  girl  was  unwell.  Every  day  the  doctor 
came  to  see  her,  Dr.  Michael  Petrovitch,  whom 
she  had  known  long,  long  ago.  And  sometimes  he 
brought  with  him  two  other  doctors  whom  she  didn't 
know.  They  turned  the  little  girl  over  on  to  her  back 
and  then  on  to  her  stomach,  listened  to  something, 
putting  an  ear  against  her  body,  pulled  down  her 
under  eyelids  and  looked  at  them.  They  seemed 
very  important  people,  they  had  stern  faces,  and  they 
spoke  to  one  another  in  a  language  the  Httle  girl  did 
not  understand. 

Afterwards  they  went  out  from  the  nursery  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  mother  sat  waiting  for  them. 
The  most  important  doctor — the  tall  one  with  grey 
hair  and  gold  eye-glasses — talked  earnestly  to  her  for 
a  long  time.  The  door  was  not  shut,  and  the  little 
girl  lying  on  her  bed  could  see  and  hear  all.  There 
was  much  that  she  didn't  understand,  but  she  knew 
the  talk  was  about  her.  Mother  looked  up  at  the 
doctor  with  large,  tired,  tear-filled  eyes.  When  the 
doctors  went  away  the  chief  one  said  loudly  : 

"  The  most  important  thing  is — don't  let  her  be 
dull.     Give  in  to  all  her  whims." 


i64  A  SLAV   SOUL 

"  Ah,  doctor,  but  she  doesn't  want  anything !  " 
"  Well,  I  don't  know  .  .   .  think  what  she  used  to 
like  before  she  was  ill.     Toys  .  .  .  something  nice  to 
eat.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,  doctor;  she  doesn't  want  anything." 
"  Well,  try  and  tempt  her  with  something.  .  .  . 
No  matter  what  it  is.  ...  I  give  you  my  word  that 
if  you  can  only  make  her  laugh  and  enjoy  herself, 
it  would  be  better  than  any  medicine.  You  must 
understand  that  your  daughter's  illness  is  indifference 
to  life,  and  nothing  more.  .  .  .  Good  morning, 
madam  !  " 

II 

"Dear  Nadya,  my  dear  Httle  girl,"  said  mother; 
"  isn't  there  anything  you  would  like  to  have  ?  " 

"  No,  mother,  I  don't  want  anything." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  put  out  all  your  dolls 
on  the  bed  ?  We'll  arrange  the  easy  chair,  the  sofa, 
the  little  table,  and  put  the  tea-service  out.  The 
dolls  shall  have  tea  and  talk  to  one  another  about 
the  weather  and  their  children's  health." 

"  Thank  you,  mother.  ...  I  don't  want  it.  .  .  . 
It's  so  dull.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  little  girlie,  we  won't  have  the  dolls. 
Suppose  we  ask  Katya  or  Zhenochka  to  come  and  see 
you.     You're  very  fond  of  them." 

"  I  don't  want  them,  mother.  Indeed,  I  don't. 
I  don't  want  anything,  don't  want  anything.  I'm  so 
dull  !  " 

"  Shall  I  get  you  some  chocolate  ?  " 
I    But  the  little  girl  didn't  answer,  she  lay  and  stared 
at  the  ceiling  with  steadfast,  mournful  eyes.     She  had 


THE   ELEPHANT  165 

no  pain  at  all,  she  wasn't  even  feverish.  But  she  was 
getting  thinner  and  weaker  every  day.  She  didn't 
mind  what  was  done  to  her ;  it  made  no  difference, 
she  didn't  care  for  anything.  She  lay  like  this  all 
day  and  all  night,  quiet,  mournful.  Sometimes  she 
would  doze  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  in  her  dreams 
she  would  see  something  long  and  grey  and  dull,  as  if 
she  were  looking  at  rain  in  autumn. 

When  the  door  leading  from  the  nursery  into  the 
drawing-room  was  open,  and  the  other  door  into  the 
study  was  open  too,  the  little  girl  could  see  her  father. 
Father  would  walk  swiftly  from  one  corner  of  the  room 
to  the  other,  and  all  the  time  he  would  smoke,  smoke. 
Sometimes  he  would  come  into  the  nursery  and  sit 
on  the  edge  of  Nadya's  bed  and  stroke  her  feet  gently. 
Then  he  would  get  up  suddenly  and  go  to  the  window, 
whistle  a  Httle,  and  look  out  into  the  street,  but  his 
shoulders  would  tremble.  He  would  hurriedly  press 
his  handkerchief  first  to  one  eye  and  then  to  the  other, 
and  then  go  back  into  his  study  as  if  he  were  angry. 
Then  he  would  begin  again  to  pace  up  and  down  and 
smoke  .  .  .  and  smoke  .  .  .  and  smoke.  And  his 
study  would  look  all  blue  from  the  clouds  of  tobacco 
smoke. 

Ill 

One  morning  the  little  girl  woke  to  feel  a  little 
stronger  than  usual.  She  had  dreamed  something, 
but  she  couldn't  remember  exactly  what  she  had 
dreamed,  and  she  looked  attentively  into  her  mother's 
eyes  for  a  long  time. 

"  What  would  you  like  ?  "  asked  mother. 

But  the  little  girl  had  suddenly  remembered  her 


i66  A  SLAV  SOUL 

dream,  and  she  said  in  a  whisper,  as  if  it  were  a 
secret : 

"  Mother  .  .  .  could  I  have  ...  an  elephant  ? 
Only  not  one  that's  painted  in  a  picture.  .  .  .  Eh  ?  " 
"  Of  course  you  can,  my  child,  of  course." 
She  went  into  the  study  and  told  papa  that  the 
little  girl  wanted  an  elephant.  Papa  put  on  his  coat 
and  hat  directly,  and  went  off  somewhere.  In  half 
an  hour  he  came  back,  bringing  with  him  an  expensive 
beautiful  toy.  It  was  a  large  grey  elephant  that 
could  move  its  head  and  wave  its  tail ;  on  its  back 
was  a  red  saddle,  and  on  the  saddle  there  was  a  golden 
tent  with  three  little  men  sitting  inside.  But  the 
little  girl  paid  no  attention  to  the  toy  ;  she  only  looked 
up  at  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  said  languidly  : 

"  No.  That's  not  at  all  what  I  meant.  I  wanted 
a  real  live  elephant,  and  this  one's  dead." 

"  But  only  look  at  it,  Nadya,"  said  mamma.  "  We'll 
wind  him  up,  and  he'll  be  exactly,  exactly  hke  a  hve 
one." 

The  elephant  was  wound  up  with  a  key,  and  it 
then  began  to  move  its  legs  and  walk  slowly  along  the 
table,  nodding  its  head  and  waving  its  tail.  But  the 
httle  girl  wasn't  interested  at  all ;  she  was  even  bored 
by  it,  though  in  order  that  her  father  shouldn't  feel 
hurt  she  whispered  kindly  : 

"  Thank  you  very  very  much,  dear  papa.  I  don't 
think  anyone  has  such  an  interesting  toy  as  this.  .  .  . 
Only  .  .  .  you  remember  .  .  .  long  ago,  you  promised 
to  take  me  to  a  menagerie  to  see  a  real  elephant  ,  .  . 
and  you  didn't  bring  it  here.  .  .  ." 

"  But  hsten,  my  dear  child.     Don't  you  understand 
hat  that's  impossible.     An  elephant  is  very  big  ;   he's 


THE    ELEPHANT  167 

as  high  as  the  ceiHng,  and  we  couldn't  get  him  into  our 
rooms.    And  what's  more,  where  could  I  obtain  one  ?  " 

"  Papa,  I  don't  want  such  a  big  one.  .  ,  .  You  could 
bring  me  as  little  a  one  as  you  like,  so  long  as  it's  alive. 
As  big  as  this  ...  a  baby  elephant." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  should  be  glad  to  do  anything 
for  you,  but  this  is  impossible.  It's  just  as  if  you 
suddenly  said  to  me,  '  Papa,  get  me  the  sun  out  of  the 
sky.'  " 

The  little  girl  smiled  sadly. 

"  How  stupid  you  are,  papa  !  As  if  I  didn't  know 
it's  impossible  to  get  the  sun,  it's  all  on  fire.  And 
the  moon,  too,  you  can't  get.  No,  if  only  I  had  a 
little  elephant  ...  a  real  one." 

And  she  quietly  closed  her  eyes  and  whispered  : 

"  Tm  tired.  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  papa.  .  .  ." 

Papa  clutched  at  his  hair  and  ran  away  to  his  study, 
where  for  some  time  he  marched  up  and  down.  Then 
he  resolutely  threw  his  unfinished  cigarette  on  the 
floor — mamma  was  always  grumbling  at  him  about 
this — and  called  out  to  the  maid  : 

"  Olga  !     Bring  me  my  hat  and  coat  1  " 

His  wife  came  out  into  the  hall. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Sasha  ?  "  asked  she. 

He  breathed  heavily  as  he  buttoned  up  his  coat. 

"  I  don't  know  myself,  Mashenka,  where  Tm  going. 
.  ,  .  Only  I  think  that  this  evening  I  shall  actually 
bring  a  live  elephant  here. 

His  wife  looked  anxiously  at  him. 

"  My  dear,  are  you  quite  well  ?  "  said  she.  "  Haven't 
you  got  a  headache  ?  Perhaps  you  slept  badly  last 
night  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  sleep  at  all,"  he  answered  angrily.     "  I 


i68  A  SLAV  SOUL 

see,  you  want  to  ask  if  I'm  going  out  of  my  mind. 
Not  just  yet.     Good-bye.     You'll  see  this  evening." 

And  he  went  off,  loudly  slamming  the  front  door 
after  him. 

IV 

In  two  hours'  time  he  was  seated  in  the  front  row 
at  the  menagerie,  and  watching  trained  animals 
perform  their  different  parts  under  the  direction  of 
the  manager.  Clever  dogs  jumped,  turned  somersaults, 
danced,  sang  to  music,  made  words  with  large  card- 
board letters.  Monkeys — one  in  a  red  skirt,  the  other 
in  blue  knickers — walked  the  tight  rope  and  rode 
upon  a  large  poodle.  An  immense  tawny  lion  jumped 
through  burning  hoops.  A  clumsy  seal  fired  a  pistol. 
And  at  last  they  brought  out  the  elephants.  There 
were  three  of  them  :  one  large  and  two  quite  small  ones, 
dwarfs  ;  but  all  the  same,  much  larger  than  a  horse. 
It  was  strange  to  see  how  these  enormous  animals, 
apparently  so  heavy  and  awkward,  could  perform 
the  most  difficult  tricks  which  would  be  out  of  the 
power  of  a  very  skilful  man.  The  largest  elephant 
distinguished  himself  particularly.  He  stood  up  at 
first  on  his  hind  legs,  then  sat  down,  then  stood  on 
his  head  with  his  feet  in  the  air,  walked  along  wooden 
bottles,  then  on  a  rolling  cask,  turned  over  the  pages 
of  a  large  picture-book  with  his  tail,  and,  finally,  sat 
down  at  a  table  and,  tying  a  serviette  round  his  neck, 
had  his  dinner  just  like  a  well-brought-up  little  boy. 

The  show  came  to  an  end.  The  spectators  went 
out.  Nadya's  father  went  up  to  the  stout  German, 
the  manager  of  the  menagerie.  He  was  standing 
behind  a  partition  smoking  a  long  black  cigar. 


THE    ELEPHANT  169 

"  Pardon  me,  please,"  said  Nadya's  father.  "  Would 
it  be  possible  for  you  to  send  your  elephant  to  my  house 
for  a  short  time  ? 

The  German's  eyes  opened  wide  in  astonishment, 
and  his  mouth  also,  so  that  the  cigar  fell  to  the 
ground.  He  made  an  exclamation,  bent  down, 
picked  up  the  cigar,  put  it  in  his  mouth  again,  and 
then  said  : 

"  Send  ?  The  elephant  ?  To  your  house  ?  I  don't 
understand  you." 

It  was  evident  from  his  look  that  he  also  wanted 
to  ask  Nadya's  father  if  he  were  a  little  wrong  in  the 
head.  .  .  .  But  the  father  quickly  began  to  explain 
the  matter  :  his  only  daughter,  Nadya,  was  ill  with 
a  strange  malady  which  no  doctor  could  understand 
nor  cure.  She  had  lain  for  a  month  in  her  bed,  had 
grown  thinner  and  weaker  every  day,  wasn't  interested 
in  anything,  was  only  dull — she  seemed  to  be  slowly 
dying.  The  doctors  had  said  she  must  be  roused, 
but  she  didn't  care  for  anything ;  they  had  said 
that  all  her  desires  were  to  be  gratified,  but  she  didn't 
wish  for  anything  at  all.  To-day  she  had  said  she 
wanted  to  see  a  live  elephant.  Wasn't  it  possible  to 
manage  that  she  should  ? 

And  he  took  the  German  by  the  button  of  his  coat, 
and  added  in  a  trembling  voice  : 

"  Well  ...  of  course  I  hope  that  my  little  girl  will 
get  well  again.  But  suppose  .  .  .  God  forbid  it  !  .  .  . 
her  illness  should  take  a  sudden  turn  for  the  worse  .  .  . 
and  she  should  die  !  Just  think — shouldn't  I  be 
tortured  for  all  the  rest  of  my  life  to  think  that  I 
hadn't  fulfilled  her  last,  her  very  last  wish  !  " 

The  German  wrinkled  up  his  forehead  and  thought- 


170  A  SLAV   SOUL 

fully  scratched  his  left  eyebrow  with  his  little  finger. 
At  length  he  asked  : 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  And  how  old  is  your  httle  girl  ?  " 

"  Six." 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  My  Lisa's  six,  too.  H'm.  But  you 
know,  it'll  cost  you  a  lot.  We'll  have  to  take  the 
elephant  one  night,  and  we  can't  bring  it  back  till 
the  next  night.  It'll  be  impossible  to  do  it  in  the  day- 
time. There'd  be  such  crowds  of  people,  and  such  a 
fuss.  ...  It  means  that  I  should  lose  a  whole  day, 
and  you  ought  to  pay  me  for  it." 

"  Of  course,  of  course  .  .  .  don't  be  anxious  about 
that." 

"  And  then  :  will  the  police  allow  an  elephant  to 
be  taken  into  a  private  house  ?  " 

"  I'll  arrange  it.     They'll  allow  it." 

"  And  there's  another  question  :  will  the  landlord 
of  your  house  allow  the  elephant  to  come  in  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I'm  my  own  landlord." 

"  Aha  !  That's  all  the  better.  And  still  another 
question  :   what  floor  do  you  live  on  ?  " 

"  The  second." 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  That's  not  so  good.  .  .  .  Have  you  a 
broad  staircase,  a  high  ceiling,  a  large  room,  wide 
doorways,  and  a  very  stout  flooring.  Because  my 
'  Tommy  '  is  three  and  a  quarter  arshins  in  height 
and  five  and  a  half  long.  And  he  weighs  a  hundred 
and  twelve  poods."  ^ 

Nadya's  father  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  Do  you  know  what  ?  "  said  he.  "  You  come 
with  me  and  look  at  the  place.  If  it's  necessary,  I'll 
have  a  wider  entrance  made." 

1  An  arshin  is  about  |  of  a  yard,  and  a  pood  is  36  lbs. 


THE    ELEPHANT  171 

"  Very     good  I  "     agreed     the     manager     of    the 
menagerie. 


That  night  they  brought  the  elephant  to  visit  the 
sick  girl. 

He  marched  importantly  down  the  very  middle  of 
the  street,  nodding  his  head  and  curling  up  and 
uncuding  his  trunk.  A  great  crowd  of  people  came 
with  him,  in  spite  of  the  late  hour.  But  the  elephant 
paid  no  attention  to  the  people  ;  he  saw  hundreds  of 
them  every  day  in  the  menagerie.  Only  once  did  he 
get  a  little  angry.  A  street  urchin  ran  up  to  him 
under  his  very  legs,  and  began  to  make  grimaces  for 
the  diversion  of  the  sight-seers. 

Then  the  elephant  quietly  took  off  the  boy's  cap 
with  his  trunk  and  threw  it  over  a  wall  near  by, 
which  was  protected  at  the  top  by  projecting  nails. 

A  policeman  came  up  to  the  people  and  tried  to 
persuade  them  : 

"  Gentlemen,  I  beg  you  to  go  away.  What's  there 
here  unusual  ?  I'm  astonished  at  you  !  As  if  you 
never  saw  an  elephant  in  the  street  before." 

They  came  up  to  the  house.  On  the  staircase, 
and  all  the  way  up  to  the  dining-room  where  the 
elephant  was  to  go,  every  door  was  opened  wide  ; 
the  latches  had  all  been  pushed  down  with  a  hammer. 
It  was  just  the  same  as  had  been  done  once  when 
they  brought  a  large  wonder-working  ikon  into  the 
house. 

But  when  he  came  to  the  staircase  the  elephant 
stopped  in  alarm,  and  refused  to  go  on. 

"  You  must  get  him  some  dainty  to  eat,"  said  the 


172  A  SLAV   SOUL 

German.  ..."  A  sweet  cake  or  something.  .  .  .  But 
.  .  .  Tommy  !  .  .  .  Oho-ho  .  .  .  Tommy  !  " 

Nadya's  father  ran  off  to  a  neighbouring  con- 
fectioner's and  bought  a  large  round  pistachio  tart.  The 
elephant  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  eat  it  at  one  gulp, 
and  the  cardboard  box  it  was  in  as  well,  but  the  German 
gave  him  only  a  quarter  of  the  tart.  .  .  .  Tommy 
evidently  liked  it,  and  stretched  out  his  trunk  for  a 
second  morsel.  But  the  German  was  cunning. 
Holding  the  tart  in  his  hand  he  went  up  the  staircase, 
step  by  step,  and  the  elephant  unwillingly  followed 
him  with  outstretched  trunk  and  bristhng  ears. 
On  the  landing  Tommy  was  given  a  second  piece. 

In  this  way  they  brought  him  into  the  dining-room, 
from  whence  all  the  furniture  had  been  taken  out 
beforehand,  and  the  floor  had  been  strewn  with  a  thick 
layer  of  straw.  .  .  .  Tommy  was  fastened  by  the  leg 
to  a  ring  which  had  been  screwed  into  the  floor.  They 
put  some  fresh  carrots,  cabbages  and  turnips  in 
front  of  him.  The  German  stretched  himself  out 
on  a  sofa  by  Tommy's  side.  The  lights  were  put  out, 
and  everybody  went  to  bed. 

VI 

Next  morning  the  little  girl  woke  very  early,  and 
asked,  first  thing  : 

"  The  elephant  ?     Has  he  come  ?  " 

"Yes,  he's  come,"  said  mamma;  "but  he  says 
that  Nadya  must  first  of  all  be  washed,  and  then  eat 
a  soft-boiled  egg  and  drink  some  hot  milk." 

"  Is  he  good  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he's  good.  Eat  it  up,  dear.  We'll  go  and 
see  him  in  a  minute." 


THE   ELEPHANT  173 

"  Is  he  funny  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  little.     Put  on  your  warm  bodice." 

The  egg  was  quickly  eaten,  and  the  milk  drunk. 
Nadya  was  put  in  the  perambulator  in  which  she 
used  to  be  taken  out  when  she  was  too  small  to  walk 
by  herself,  and  wheeled  into  the  dining-room. 

The  elephant  looked  much  larger  than  Nadya  had 
thought  when  she  saw  it  in  a  picture.  He  was  only 
just  a  little  lower  than  the  top  of  the  door,  and  half 
as  long  as  the  dining-room.  He  had  thick  skin,  in 
heavy  folds.  His  legs  were  thick  as  pillars.  His  long 
tail  looked  something  like  a  broom  at  the  end.  His 
head  had  great  lumps  on  it.  His  ears  were  as  large  as 
shovels,  and  were  hanging  down.  His  eyes  were  quite 
tiny,  but  they  looked  wise  and  kind.  His  tusks  had 
been  cut  off.  His  trunk  was  like  a  long  snake  and 
had  two  nostrils  at  the  end,  with  a  moving  flexible 
finger  between  them.  If  the  elephant  had  stretched 
out  his  trunk  to  its  full  length,  it  would  probably 
have  reached  to  the  window. 

The  little  girl  was  not  at  all  frightened.  She  was 
only  just  a  little  astounded  by  the  enormous  size 
of  the  animal.  But  Polya,  the  sixteen-year-old 
nursemaid,  began  to  whimper  in  terror. 

The  elephant's  master,  the  German,  came  up  to 
the  perambulator  and  said  : 

"  Good  morning,  young  lady.  Don't  be  afraid, 
please.     Tommy's  very  good,  and  he  likes  children." 

The  little  girl  held  out  her  little  white  hand  to  the 
German. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  said  in  answer.  "  How  are  you  ? 
I'm  not  in  the  least  afraid.     What's  his  name  ?  " 
lommy. 


174  A  SLAV  SOUL 

"  Good  morning,  Tommy,"  said  the  child,  with  a 
bow.     "  How  did  you  sleep  last  night  ?  " 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  The  elephant  took 
it  cautiously  and  pressed  her  thin  fingers  with  his 
movable  strong  one,  and  he  did  this  much  more 
gently  than  Dr.  Michael  Petrovitch.  Then  he  nodded 
his  head,  and  screwed  up  his  little  eyes  as  if  he  were 
laughing. 

"  Does  he  understand  everything  ?  "  asked  the 
little  girl  of  the  German. 

"  Oh,  absolutely  everything,  miss." 

"  Only  he  can't  speak." 

"  No,  he  can't  speak.  Do  you  know,  I've  got  a 
little  girl  just  as  small  as  you.  Her  name's  Lisa. 
Tommy's  a  great,  a  very  great,  friend  of  hers." 

"  And  you.  Tommy,  have  you  had  any  tea  yet  ?  " 
asked  Nadya. 

The  elephant  stretched  out  his  trunk  and  blew 
out  a  warm  breath  into  the  little  girl's  face,  making 
her  hair  puff  out  at  each  side. 

Nadya  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands.  The  German 
laughed  out  loud  too.  He  was  also  large  and  fat, 
and  good-natured  like  the  elephant,  and  Nadya 
thought  they  looked  like  one  another.  Perhaps 
they  were  relations. 

"  No,  he  hasn't  had  tea,  miss.  But  he  likes  to 
drink  sugar- water.     And  he's  very  fond  of  rolls." 

Some  rolls  were  brought  in  on  a  tray.  The  little 
girl  handed  some  to  her  guest.  He  caught  a  roll 
cleverly  with  his  finger,  and  turning  up  his  trunk  into 
a  ring  hid  the  roll  somewhere  underneath  his  head, 
where  one  could  see  his  funny  three-cornered,  hairy, 
lower  lip  moving,  and  hear  the  roll  rusthng  against 


THE    ELEPHANT  175 

the  dry  skin.  Tommy  did  the  same  with  a  second  roll, 
and  a  third,  and  a  fourth  and  a  fifth,  nodding  his 
head  and  wrinkling  up  his  little  eyes  still  more  with 
satisfaction.     And  the  little  girl  laughed  delightedly. 

When  the  rolls  were  all  eaten,  Nadya  presented 
her  dolls  to  the  elephant. 

"  Look,  Tommy,  this  nicely-dressed  doll  is  Sonya. 
She's  a  very  good  child,  but  a  little  naughty  sometimes, 
and  doesn't  want  to  eat  her  soup.  This  one  is  Natasha, 
Sonya's  daughter.  She's  begun  to  learn  already, 
and  she  knows  almost  all  her  letters.  And  this  one 
is  Matreshka.  She  was  my  very  first  doll.  Look, 
she  hasn't  got  any  nose  and  her  head's  been  stuck  on, 
and  she's  lost  all  her  hair.  But  I  can't  turn  an  old 
woman  out  of  the  house.  Can  I,  Tommy  ?  She  used 
to  be  Sonya's  mother,  but  now  she's  the  cook.  Let's 
have  a  game,  Tommy  ;  you  be  the  father  and  I'll 
be  the  mother,  and  these  shall  be  our  children." 

Tommy  agreed.  He  laughed,  took  Matreshka  by 
the  neck  and  put  her  in  his  mouth.  But  this  was 
only  a  joke.  After  biting  the  doll  a  little  he  put  her 
back  again  on  the  little  girl's  lap,  just  a  little  wet  and 
crumpled. 

Then  Nadya  showed  him  a  large  picture-book,  and 
explained  : 

"  This  is  a  horse,  this  is  a  canary,  this  is  a  gun.  .  .  . 
Look,  there's  a  cage  with  a  bird  inside  ;  here's  a  pail, 
a  looking-glass,  a  stove,  a  spade,  a  raven.  .  .  .  And 
here,  just  look,  here's  an  elephant.  It's  not  at  all 
like  you,  is  it  ?  Is  it  possible  an  elephant  could  be 
so  small,  Tommy  ?  " 

Tommy  thought  that  there  were  no  elephants 
in  the  world  as  small  as  that.     He  didn't  seem  to  like 


176  A  SLAV  SOUL 

that  picture.  He  took  hold  of  the  edge  of  the  page 
with  his  finger  and  turned  it  over. 

It  was  dinner-time  now,  but  the  Uttle  girl  couldn't 
tear  herself  away  from  the  elephant.  The  German 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"  If  you  allow  me,  I  will  arrange  it  all.  They  can 
dine  together." 

He  ordered  the  elephant  to  sit  down,  and  the 
obedient  animal  did  so,  shaking  all  the  floor  of  the 
whole  flat,  making  all  the  china  on  the  sideboard 
jingle,  and  the  people  downstairs  were  sprinkled  over 
with  bits  of  plaster  falling  from  the  ceiling.  The 
little  girl  sat  opposite  the  elephant.  The  table  was 
put  between  them.  A  tablecloth  was  tied  round 
the  elephant's  neck,  and  the  new  friends  began  their 
dinner.  The  little  girl  had  chicken  broth  and  cutlets, 
the  elephant  had  various  vegetables  and  salad.  The 
little  girl  had  a  liqueur  glass  full  of  sherry,  and  the 
elephant  had  some  warm  water  with  a  glassful  of  rum 
in  it,  and  he  sucked  up  this  liquid  through  his  trunk 
with  great  pleasure  from  a  soup  tureen.  Then  they 
had  the  sweet  course — the  little  girl  a  cup  of  cocoa, 
and  the  elephant  a  tart,  a  walnut  one  this  time.  The 
German,  meanwhile,  sat  with  papa  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and,  with  as  much  pleasure  as  the  elephant, 
drank  beer,  only  in  greater  quantities. 

After  dinner  some  visitors  came  to  see  papa,  and 
they  were  warned  in  the  hall  about  the  elephant  so 
that  they  should  not  be  frightened.  At  first  they 
couldn't  believe  it,  but  when  they  saw  Tommy  they 
pressed  themselves  close  up  against  the  door. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  he's  good,"  said  the  little  girl 
soothingly. 


THE    ELEPHANT  177 

But  the  visitors  quickly  hurried  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  after  having  sat  there  for  five  minutes  took 
their  departure. 

The  evening  came.  It  grew  late,  and  time  for  the 
httle  girl  to  go  to  bed.  But  they  couldn't  get  her 
away  from  the  elephant.  She  dropped  asleep  by  his 
side  presently,  and  then  they  carried  her  off  to  the 
nursery.  She  didn't  wake  up,  even  when  she  was 
being  undressed. 

That  night  Nadya  dreamed  that  she  was  married 
to  Tommy  and  that  they  had  many  children,  tiny, 
jolly,  little  baby  elephants.  The  elephant,  whom  they 
took  back  at  night  to  the  menagerie,  also  dreamed  of 
the  sweet  and  affectionate  little  girl.  He  dreamt, 
too,  that  he  had  a  large  tart  with  walnuts  and  pistachios 
as  big  as  a  gate.  .  .  . 

Next  morning  the  little  girl  woke,  fresh  and  healthy, 
and  as  she  used  to  do  before  her  illness,  cried  out, 
in  a  voice  to  be  heard  all  over  the  house,  loudly  and 
impatiently  : 

"  I  want  some  milk." 

Hearing  this  cry,  in  her  bedroom  mamma  crossed 
herself  devoutly. 

But  the  little  girl  remembered  what  had  happened 
yesterday,  and  she  asked  : 

"  Where's  the  elephant  ?  " 

They  explained  to  her  that  the  elephant  had  been 
obhged  to  go  home,  that  he  had  children  who  couldn't 
be  left  by  themselves,  but  that  he  had  left  a  message 
for  Nadya  to  say  that  he  hoped  she  would  come  and 
see  him  as  soon  as  she  was  well. 

The  little  girl  smiled  slyly  and  said  : 

"  Tell  Tommy  that  Fm  quite  well  now." 


8.1. 


XI 

DOGS'   HAPPINESS 

It  was  between  six  and  seven  o'clock  on  a  fine 
September  morning  when  the  eighteen-months-old 
pointer,  Jack,  a  brown,  long-eared,  frisky  animal, 
started  out  with  the  cook,  Annushka,  to  market. 
He  knew  the  way  perfectly  well,  and  so  ran  confidently 
on  in  front  of  her,  sniffing  at  the  curbstones  as  he 
went  and  stopping  at  the  crossings  to  see  if  Annushka 
were  following.  Finding  affirmation  in  her  face, 
and  the  direction  in  which  she  was  going,  he  would 
turn  again  with  a  decisive  movement  and  rush  on  in 
a  lively  gallop. 

On  one  occasion,  however,  when  he  turned  round 
near  a  familiar  sausage-shop,  Jack  could  not  see 
Annushka.  He  dashed  back  so  hastily  that  his  left 
ear  was  turned  inside  out  as  he  went.  But  Annushka 
was  not  to  be  seen  at  the  cross-roads.  So  Jack  resolved 
to  find  his  way  by  scent.  He  stopped,  cautiously 
raised  his  wet  sensitive  nose,  and  tried  in  all  directions 
to  recognise  the  famiHar  scent  of  Annushka's  dress, 
the  smell  of  the  dirty  kitchen-table  and  mottled 
soap.  But  just  at  that  moment  a  lady  came  hurriedly 
past  him,  and  brushing  up  against  his  side  with  her 
rustling  skirt  she  left  behind  a  strong  wave  of  disgusting 
Oriental  perfume.  Jack  moved  his  head  from  side 
to  side  in  vexation.  The  trail  of  Annushka  was 
entirely  lost. 


DOGS'    HAPPINESS  179 

But  he  was  not  upset  by  this.  He  knew  the  town 
well  and  could  always  find  his  way  home  easily — 
all  he  had  to  do  was  to  go  to  the  sausage-shop,  then  to 
the  greengrocer's,  then  turn  to  the  left  and  go  past  a 
grey  house  from  the  basement  of  which  there  was 
always  wafted  a  smell  of  burning  fat,  and  he  would 
be  in  his  own  street.  Jack  did  not  hurry.  The 
morning  was  fresh  and  clear,  and  in  the  pure,  softly 
transparent  and  rather  moist  air,  all  the  various  odours 
of  the  town  had  an  unusual  refinement  and  distinctness. 
Running  past  the  post-office,  with  his  tail  stuck  out 
as  stiff  as  a  rod  and  his  nostrils  all  trembling  with 
excitement.  Jack  could  have  sworn  that  only  a  moment 
before  a  large,  mouse-coloured,  oldish  dog  had  stopped 
there,  a  dog  who  was  usually  fed  on  oatmeal  porridge. 

And  after  running  along  about  two  hundred  paces, 
he  actually  saw  this  dog,  a  cowardly,  sober-looking 
brute.  His  ears  had  been  cropped,  and  a  broad,  worn, 
strap  was  dangling  from  his  neck. 

The  dog  noticed  Jack,  and  stopped,  half  turning 
back  on  his  steps.  Jack  curled  his  tail  in  the  air 
provokingly  and  began  to  walk  slowly  round  the  other, 
with  an  air  of  looking  somewhere  to  one  side.  The 
mouse-coloured  dog  also  raised  his  tail  and  showed 
a  broad  row  of  white  teeth.  Then  they  both  growled, 
turning  their  heads  away  from  one  another  as  they 
did  so,  and  trying,  as  it  were,  to  swallow  something 
which  stuck  in  their  throats. 

"  If  he  says  anything  insulting  to  my  honour,  or 
the  honour  of  any  well-bred  pointer,  I  shall  fasten 
my  teeth  in  his  side,  near  his  left  hind-leg,"  thought 
Jack  to  himself.  "  Of  course,  he  is  stronger  than  I 
am,  but  he  is  stupid  and  clumsy.     Look  how  he  stands 

N   3 


i8o  A  SLAV  SOUL 

there,  like  a  dummy,  and  has  no  idea  that  all  his  left 
flank  is  open  to  attack." 

And  suddenly  .  .  .  something  inexpHcable  and 
almost  supernatural  happened.  The  other  dog 
unexpectedly  threw  himself  on  his  back  and  was 
dragged  by  some  unseen  force  from  the  pathway 
into  the  road.  Directly  afterwards  this  same  unseen 
power  grasped  Jack  by  the  throat  ...  he  stood  firm 
on  his  fore-legs  and  shook  his  head  furiously.  But 
the  invisible  "  something  "  was  pulled  so  tight  round 
his  neck  that  the  brown  pointer  became  unconscious.^ 

He  came  to  his  senses  again  in  a  stuffy  iron  cage, 
which  was  jolting  and  shaking  as  it  was  drawn  along 
the  cobbled  roadway,  on  a  badly- jointed  vehicle 
trembling  in  all  its  parts.  From  its  acrid  doggy 
odour  Jack  guessed  at  once  that  this  cart  must  have 
been  used  for  years  to  convey  dogs  of  all  breeds  and  all 
ages.  On  the  box  in  front  sat  two  men,  whose  out- 
ward appearance  was  not  at  all  calculated  to  inspire 
confidence. 

There  was  already  a  sufficiently  large  company  in 
the  cart.  First  of  all.  Jack  noticed  the  mouse-coloured 
dog  whom  he  had  just  met  and  quarrelled  with  in 
the  street.  He  was  standing  with  his  head  stuck 
out  between  two  of  the  iron  bars,  and  he  whined 
pitifully  as  his  body  was  jolted  backwards  and  forwards 
by  the  movement  of  the  cart.  In  the  middle  of  the 
cage  lay  an  old  white  poodle,  his  wise-looking  head 
lying  between  his  gouty  paws.  His  coat  was  cut  to 
make  him  look  like  a  lion,  with  tufts  left  on  his  knees 

1  Some  municipalities  in  Russia  provide  a  man  and  a  cart 
to  take  off  stray  dogs.  Jack  had  been  suddenly  netted  by 
the  dog-man. 


DOGS'    HAPPINESS  i8i 

and  at  the  end  of  his  tail.  The  poodle  had  apparently 
resigned  himself  to  his  situation  with  a  stoic  philosophy, 
and  if  he  had  not  sighed  occasionally  and  wrinkled 
his  brows,  it  might  have  been  thought  that  he  slept. 
By  his  side,  trembling  from  agitation  and  the  cold 
of  the  early  morning,  sat  a  fine  well-kept  greyhound, 
with  long  thin  legs  and  sharp-pointed  head.  She 
yawned  nervously  from  time  to  time,  rolhng  up  her 
rosy  little  tongue  into  a  tube,  accompanying  the  yawn 
with  a  long-drawn-out,  high-pitched  whine.  .  .  .  Near 
the  back  of  the  cage,  pressed  close  up  to  the  bars, 
was  a  black  dachshund,  with  smooth  skin  dappled 
with  yellow  on  the  breast  and  above  the  eyes.  She 
could  not  get  over  her  astonishment  at  her  position, 
and  she  looked  a  strangely  comical  figure  with  her 
flopping  paws  and  crocodile  body,  and  the  serious 
expression  of  her  head  with  its  ears  reaching  almost 
to  the  ground. 

Besides  this  more  or  less  distinguished  society, 
there  were  in  the  cage  two  unmistakable  yard  dogs. 
One  of  them  was  that  sort  of  dog  which  is  generally 
called  Bouton,  and  is  always  noted  for  its  meanness 
of  disposition.  She  was  a  shaggy,  reddish-coloured 
animal  with  a  shaggy  tail,  curled  up  like  the  figure  9. 
She  had  been  the  first  of  the  dogs  to  be  captured, 
and  she  had  apparently  become  so  accustomed  to 
her  position  that  she  had  for  some  time  past  made 
many  efforts  to  begin  an  interesting  conversation 
with  someone.  The  last  dog  of  all  was  out  of  sight, 
he  had  been  driven  into  the  darkest  corner,  and  lay 
there  curled  up  in  a  heap.  He  had  only  moved  once 
all  the  time,  and  that  had  been  to  growl  at  Jack 
when  he  had  found  himself  near  him.     Everyone   in 


i82  A  SLAV  SOUL    . 

the  company  felt  a  strong  antipathy  against  him.  In 
the  first  place,  he  was  smeared  all  over  with  a  violet 
colour,  the  work  of  certain  journeyman  whitewashers ; 
secondly,  his  hair  was  rough  and  bristly  and  uncombed ; 
thirdly,  he  was  evidently  mangy,  hungry,  strong  and 
daring — this  had  been  quite  evident  in  the  resolute 
push  of  his  lean  body  with  which  he  had  greeted  the 
arrival  of  the  unconscious  Jack. 

There  was  silence  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  At 
last  Jack,  whose  healthy  sense  of  humour  never  forsook 
him  under  any  circumstances,  remarked  in  a  jaunty 
tone  : 

"  The  adventure  begins  to  be  interesting.  I  am 
curious  to  know  where  these  gentlemen  will  make 
their  first  stopping  place." 

The  old  poodle  did  not  like  the  frivolous  tone  of 
the  brown  pointer.  He  turned  his  head  slowly  in 
Jack's  direction,  and  said  sharply,  with  a  cold  sarcasm  : 

"  I  can  satisfy  your  curiosity,  young  man.  These 
gentlemen  will  make  their  first  stopping  place  at  the 
slaughter-house. ' ' 

"  Where  ?  Pardon  me,  please,  I  didn't  catch 
the  word,"  muttered  Jack,  sitting  down  involuntarily, 
for  his  legs  had  suddenly  begun  to  tremble.  "  You 
were  pleased  to  say — at  the  s-s  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  at  the  slaughter-house,"  repeated  the  poodle 
coldly,  turning  his  head  away. 

"  Pardon  me,  but  I  don't  quite  understand.  .  .  . 
Slaughter-house  ?  .  .  .  What  kind  of  an  institution 
is  that  ?     Won't  you  be  so  good  as  to  explain  ?  " 

The  poodle  was  silent.  But  as  the  greyhound 
and  the  terrier  both  joined  their  petition  to  Jack's, 
the  old  poodle,  who  did  not  wish  to  appear  impolite 


DOGS'    HAPPINESS  183 

in  the  presence  of  ladies,  felt  obliged  to  enter  into 
certain  details. 

"  Well,  you  see  mesdames,  it  is  a  sort  of  large  court- 
yard surrounded  by  a  high  fence  with  sharp  points, 
where  they  shut  in  all  dogs  found  wandering  in  the 
streets.  I've  had  the  unhappiness-  to  be  taken  there 
three  times  already." 

"  I've  never  seen  you  !  "  was  heard  in  a  hoarse 
voice  from  the  dark  corner.  "  And  this  is  the  seventh 
time  I've  been  there." 

There  was  no  doubt  that  the  voice  from  the  dark 
corner  belonged  to  the  violet-coloured  dog.  The 
company  was  shocked  at  the  interruption  of  their 
conversation  by  this  rude  person,  and  so  pretended 
not  to  hear  the  remark.  But  Bouton,  with  the 
cringing  eagerness  of  an  upstart  in  society,  cried  out  : 
"  Please  don't  interfere  in  other  people's  conversation 
unless  you're  asked,"  and  then  turned  at  once  to  the 
important-looking  mouse-coloured  dog  for  approbation. 

"  I've  been  there  three  times,"  the  poodle  went  on, 
"  but  my  master  has  always  come  and  fetched  me 
away  again.  I  play  in  a  circus,  and  you  understand 
that  I  am  of  some  value.  Well,  in  this  unpleasant 
place  they  have  a  collection  of  two  or  three  hundred 
dogs.  .  .  ." 

"  But,  tell  me  ...  is  there  good  society  there  ?  " 
asked  the  greyhound  affectedly. 

"  Sometimes.  They  feed  us  very  badly  and  give 
us  little  to  eat.  Occasionally  one  of  the  dogs  dis- 
appears, and  then  they  give  us  a  dinner  of  .   .  ." 

In  order  to  heighten  the  effect  of  his  words,  the 
poodle  made  a  slight  pause,  looked  round  on  his 
audience,  and  then  added  with  studied  indifference  : 


i84  A   SLAV    SOUL 

— "  Of  dog's  flesh." 

At  these  words  the  company  was  filled  with  terror 
and  indignation. 

"  Devil  take  it  .  .  .  what  low-down  scoundrelism  !  " 
exclaimed  Jack. 

"  I  shall  faint  ...  I  feel  so  ill,"  murmured  the 
greyhound. 

"  That's  dreadful  .  .  .  dreadful  .  .  ."  moaned  the 
dachshund. 

"  I've  always  said  that  men  were  scoundrels," 
snarled  the  mouse-coloured  dog. 

"  What  a  strange  death  !  "  sighed  Bouton. 

But  from  the  dark  corner  was  heard  once  more  the 
voice  of  the  violet-coloured  dog.  With  gloomy  and 
cynical  sarcasm  he  said  : 

"  The  soup's  not  so  bad,  though — it's  not  at  all  bad, 
though,  of  course,  some  ladies  who  are  accustomed 
to  eat  chicken  cutlets  would  find  dog's  flesh  a  little  too 
tough." 

The  poodle  paid  no  attention  to  this  rude  remark, 
but  went  on : 

"  And  afterwards  I  gathered  from  the  manager's 
talk  that  our  late  companion's  skin  had  gone  to 
make  ladies'  gloves.  But  .  .  .  prepare  your  nerves, 
mesdames  .  .  .  but,  this  is  nothing.  ...  In  order  to 
make  the  skin  softer  and  more  smooth,  it  must  be 
taken  from  the  living  animal." 

Cries  of  despair  broke  in  upon  the  poodle's  speech. 

"  How  inhuman  !  " 

"  What  mean  conduct !  " 

"  No,  that  can't  be  true  !  " 

"  O  Lord  !  " 

"  Murderers  !  " 


DOGS'    HAPPINESS  185 

"  No,  worse  than  murderers  !  " 
After    this    outburst    there    was    a    strained    and 
melancholy    silence.     Each    of   them    had    a   mental 
picture,  a  fearful  foreboding  of  what  it  might  be  to  be 
skinned  alive. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  there  no  way  of  getting 

all  honourable  dogs  free,  once  and  for  all,  from  their 

shameful  slavery  to  mankind  ?  "cried  Jack  passionately. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  find  a  way,"  said  the  old  poodle 

ironically. 

The  dogs  all  began  to  try  and  think  of  a  way. 
"  Bite  them  all,  and  have  an  end  of  it  !  "  said  the 
big  dog  in  his  angry  bass. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  way  ;  we  need  a  radical  remedy," 
seconded  the  servile  Bouton.  "  In  the  end  they'll 
be  afraid  of  us." 

"  Yes,  bite  them  all — that's  a  splendid  idea,"  said 
the  old  poodle.  "  But  what's  your  opinion,  dear 
sirs,  about  their  long  whips  ?  No  doubt  you're 
acquainted  with  them  !  " 

"  H'm."     The  dog  coughed  and  cleared  his  throat. 
"  H'm,"  echoed  Bouton. 

"  No,  take  my  word  for  it,  gentlemen,  we  cannot 
struggle  against  men.  I've  lived  in  this  world  for 
some  time,  and  I've  not  had  a  bad  life.  .  .  .  Take  for 
example  such  simple  things  as  kennels,  whips,  chains, 
muzzles — things,  I  imagine,  not  unknown  to  any  one 
of  us.  Let  us  suppose  that  we  dogs  succeed  in  thinking 
out  a  plan  which  will  free  us  from  these  things.  Will 
not  man  then  arm  himself  with  more  perfect  instru- 
ments ?  There  is  no  doubt  that  he  will.  Haven't 
you  seen  what  instruments  of  torture  they  make 
for    one   another  ?      No,  we  must   submit    to  them. 


i86  A  SLAV  SOUL 

gentlemen,  that's  all  about  it.  It's  a  law  of 
Nature." 

"  Well,  he's  shown  us  his  philosophy,"  whispered 
the  dachshund  in  Jack's  ear.  "  I've  no  patience  with 
these  old  folks  and  their  teaching." 

"  You're  quite  right,  mademoiselle,"  said  Jack, 
gallantly  wagging  his  tail. 

The  mouse-coloured  dog  was  looking  very  melancholy 
and  snapping  at  the  flies.  He  drawled  out  in  a  whining 
tone  : 

"  Eh,  it's  a  dog's  hfe  !  " 

"  And  where  is  the  justice  of  it  all  ?  " — the  grey- 
hound, who  had  been  silent  up  to  this  point,  began  to 
agitate  herself — "  You,  Mr.  Poodle,  pardon  me,  I 
haven't  the  honour  of  knowing  your  name." 

"  Arto,  professor  of  equilibristics,  at  your  service." 
The  poodle  bowed. 

"  Well,  tell  me,  Mr.  Professor,  you  have  apparently 
had  such  great  experience,  let  alone  your  learning — 
tell  me,  where  is  the  higher  justice  of  it  all  ?  Are 
human  beings  so  much  more  worthy  and  better  than 
we  are,  that  they  are  allowed  to  take  advantage  of  so 
many  cruel  privileges  with  impunity  ?  " 

"  They  are  not  any  better  or  any  more  worthy 
than  we  are,  dear  young  lady,  but  they  are  stronger 
and  wiser,"  answered  Arto,  with  some  heat.  "  Oh, 
I  know  the  morals  of  these  two-legged  animals  very 
well.  ...  In  the  first  place,  they  are  greedy — greedier 
than  any  dog  on  earth.  They  have  so  much  bread 
and  meat  and  water  that  all  these  monsters  could 
be  satisfied  and  well-fed  all  their  lives.  But  instead 
of  sharing  it  out,  a  tenth  of  them  get  all  the  provisions 
for  life  into  their  hands,  and  not  being  able  to  devour 


DOGS'    HAPPINESS  187 

it  all  themselves,  they  force  the  remaining  nine-tenths 
to  go  hungry.  Now,  tell  me,  is  it  possible  that  a 
well-fed  dog  would  not  share  a  gnawed  bone  with  his 
neighbour  ?  " 

"  He'd  share  it,  of  course  he  would  !  "  agreed  all  the 
listeners. 

"  H'm,"  coughed  the  dog  doubtfully. 

"  And  besides  that,  people  are  wicked.  Who  could 
ever  say  that  one  dog  would  kill  another — on  account 
of  love  or  envy  or  malice  ?  We  bite  one  another 
sometimes,  that's  true.  But  we  don't  take  each 
other's  lives." 

"  No,  indeed  we  don't,"  they  all  affirmed. 

"  And  more  than  this,"  went  on  the  white  poodle. 
"  Could  one  dog  make  up  his  mind  not  to  allow  another 
dog  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  or  to  be  free  to  express 
his  thoughts  as  to  the  arrangements  for  the  happiness 
of  dogs  ?     But  men  do  this." 

"  Devil  take  them  !  "  put  in  the  mouse-coloured 
dog  energetically. 

"  And,  in  conclusion,  I  say  that  men  are  hypocrites  ; 
they  envy  one  another,  they  lie,  they  are  inhospitable, 
cruel.  .  .  .  And  yet  they  rule  over  us,  and  will  continue 
to  do  so  .  .  .  because  it's  arranged  like  that.  It  is 
impossible  for  us  to  free  ourselves  from  their  authority. 
All  the  life  of  dogs,  and  all  their  happiness,  is  in  the 
hands  of  men.  In  our  present  position  each  one  of 
us,  who  has  a  good  master,  ought  to  thank  Fate.  Only 
a  master  can  free  us  from  the  pleasure  of  eating  a 
comrade's  flesh,  and  of  imagining  that  comrade's 
feelings  when  he  was  being  skinned  alive." 

The  professor's  speech  reduced  the  whole  company 
to  a  state  of  melancholy.     No  other  dog  could  utter  a 


i88  A  SLAV   SOUL 

word.  They  all  shivered  helplessly,  and  shook  with 
the  joltings  of  the  cart.  The  big  dog  whined  piteously. 
Bouton,  who  was  standing  next  to  him,  pressed  his 
own  body  softly  up  against  him. 

But  soon  they  felt  that  the  wheels  of  the  cart  were 
passing  over  sand.  In  five  minutes  more  they  were 
driven  through  wide  open  gates,  and  they  found 
themselves  in  the  middle  of  an  immense  courtyard 
surrounded  by  a  close  pahng.  Sharp  nails  were 
sticking  out  at  the  top  of  the  pahng.  Two  hundred 
dogs,  lean  and  dirty,  with  drooping  tails  and  a  look 
of  melancholy  on  their  faces,  wandered  about  the  yard. 

The  doors  of  the  cage  were  flung  open.  All  the 
seven  new-comers  came  forth  and  instinctively  stood 
together  in  one  group. 

"  Here,  you  professor,  how  do  you  feel  now  ?  "  The 
poodle  heard  a  bark  behind  him. 

He  turned  round  and  saw  the  violet-coloured  dog 
smiling  insolently  at  him. 

"  Oh,  leave  me  alone,"  growled  the  old  poodle. 
"  It's  no  business  of  yours." 

"  I  only  made  a  remark,"  said  the  other.  "  You 
spoke  such  words  of  wisdom  in  the  cart,  but  you 
made  one  mistake.     Yes,  you  did." 

"  Get  away,  devil  take  you  !     What  mistake  ?  " 

"  About  a  dog's  happiness.  If  you  like,  I'll  show 
you  in  whose  hands  a  dog's  happiness  lies." 

And  suddenly  pressing  back  his  ears  and  extending 
his  tail,  the  violet  dog  set  out  on  such  a  mad  career 
that  the  old  professor  of  equilibristics  could  only 
stand  and  watch  him  with  open  mouth. 

"  Catch  him  !  Stop  him  !  "  shouted  the  keepers, 
flinging  themselves  in  pursuit  of  the  escaping  dog. 


DOGS'    HAPPINESS  189 

But  the  violet  dog  had  already  gained  the  paling. 
With  one  bound  he  sprang  up  from  the  ground  and 
found  himself  at  the  top,  hanging  on  by  his  fore-paws. 
And  in  two  more  convulsive  springs  he  had  leaped 
over  the  paling,  leaving  on  the  nails  a  good  half  of  his 
side. 

The  old  white  poodle  gazed  after  him  for  a  long  time. 
He  understood  the  mistake  he  had  made. 


XII 
A    CLUMP   OF    LILACS 

Nikolai  Yevgrafovitch  Almazof  hardly  waited 
for  his  wife  to  open  the  door  to  him  ;  he  went  straight 
to  his  study  without  taking  off  his  hat  or  coat.  His 
wife  knew  in  a  moment  by  his  frowning  face  and 
nervously-bitten  underhp  that  a  great  misfortune 
had  occurred. 

She  followed  him  in  silence.  Almazof  stood  still 
for  a  moment  when  he  reached  the  study,  and  stared 
gloomily  into  one  corner,  then  he  dashed  his  portfolio 
out  of  his  hand  on  to  the  floor,  where  it  lay  wide  open, 
and  threw  himself  into  an  armchair,  irritably  snapping 
his  fingers  together. 

He  was  a  young  and  poor  army  officer  attending 
a  course  of  lectures  at  the  staff  office  academy,  and 
had  just  returned  from  a  class.  To-day  he  had  taken 
in  to  the  professor  his  last  and  most  difficult  practical 
work,  a  survey  of  the  neighbourhood. 

So  far  all  his  examinations  had  gone  well,  and  it 
was  only  known  to  God  and  to  his  wife  what  fearful 
labour  they  had  cost  him.  ...  To  begin  with,  his  very 
entrance  into  the  academy  had  seemed  impossible 
at  first.  Two  years  in  succession  he  had  failed 
ignominiously,  and  only  in  the  third  had  he  by  deter- 
mined effort  overcome  all  hindrances.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  his  wife  he  would  not  have  had  sufficient 


A    CLUMP    OF    LILACS  191 

energy  to  continue  the  struggle  ;  he  would  have  given 
it  up  entirely.  But  Verotchka  never  allowed  him  to 
lose  heart,  she  was  always  encouraging  him  .  .  .  she 
met  every  drawback  with  a  bright,  almost  gay,  front. 
She  denied  herself  everything  so  that  her  husband 
might  have  all  the  little  things  so  necessary  for  a  man 
engaged  in  mental  labour ;  she  was  his  secretary, 
draughtsman,  reader,  lesson-hearer,  and  note-book 
all  in  one. 

For  five  minutes  there  was  a  dead  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  sorry  sound  of  their  old  alarm  clock, 
familiar  and  tiresome  .  .  .  one,  two,  three-three — 
two  clear  ticks,  and  the  third  with  a  hoarse  stammer. 
Almazof  still  sat  in  his  hat  and  coat,  turning  to  one 
side  in  his  chair.  .  .  .  Vera  stood  two  paces  from  him, 
silent  also,  her  beautiful  mobile  face  full  of  suffering. 
At  length  she  broke  the  stillness  with  the  cautiousness 
a  woman  might  use  when  speaking  at  the  bedside  of  a 
very  sick  friend  : 

"  Well,  Kolya,  what  about  the  work  ?     Was  it  bad  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  without  speaking. 

"  Kolya,  was  it  rejected  ?  Tell  me  ;  we  must  talk  it 
over  together." 

Almazof  turned  to  his  wife  and  began  to  speak 
irritably  and  passionately,  as  one  generally  does 
speak  when  telling  of  an  insult  long  endured. 

"  Yes,  yes.  They've  rejected  it,  if  you  want  to 
know.  Can't  you  see  they  have  ?  It's  all  gone  to 
the  devil  !  All  that  rubbish  " — he  kicked  the  portfolio 
with  his  foot — "  all  that  rubbish  had  better  be  thrown 
into  the  fire.  That's  your  academy.  I  shall  be  back 
in  the  regiment  with  a  bang  next  month,  disgraced. 
And  all  for  a  filthy  spot  .  .  .  damn  it  !  " 


192  A   SLAV   SOUL 

"  What  spot,  Kolya  ?  "  asked  she.  "  I  don't 
understand  anything  about  it." 

She  sat  down  on  the  side  of  his  chair  and  put  her 
arm  round  his  neck.  He  made  no  resistance,  but  still 
continued  to  stare  into  the  corner  with  an  injured 
expression. 

"  What  spot  was  it,  Kolya  ?  "  asked  his  wife  once 
more. 

"  Oh,  an  ordinary  spot — of  green  paint.  You 
know  I  sat  up  until  three  o'clock  last  night  to  finish 
my  drawing.  The  plan  was  beautifully  done.  Every- 
one said  so.  Well,  I  sat  there  last  night  and  I  got  so 
tired  that  my  hand  shook,  and  I  made  a  blot — such 
a  big  one.  ...  I  tried  to  erase  it,  but  I  only  made  it 
worse.  ...  I  thought  and  thought  what  I  had  better 
do,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  put  a  clump  of  trees 
in  that  place.  ...  It  was  very  successful,  and  no 
one  could  guess  there  had  been  a  blot.  Well,  to-day 
I  took  it  in  to  the  professor.  '  Yes,  yes,'  said  he, 
'  that's  very  well.  But  what  have  you  got  here, 
lieutenant ;  where  have  these  bushes  sprung  from  ?  ' 
Of  course,  I  ought  to  have  told  him  what  had  happened. 
Perhaps  he  would  only  have  laughed  .  .  .  but  no, 
he  wouldn't,  he's  such  an  accurate  German,  such 
a  pedant.  So  I  said,  '  There  are  some  trees  grow- 
ing there.'  '  Oh,  no,  no,'  said  he.  '  I  know  this 
neighbourhood  as  well  as  I  know  the  five  fingers  of 
my  own  hand ;  there  can't  be  any  trees  there.' 
So,  my  word  against  his,  we  had  a  great  argument 
about  it ;  many  of  our  officers  were  there  too,  listening. 
'  Well,'  he  said  at  last,  '  if  you're  so  sure  that  there 
are  trees  in  this  hollow,  be  so  good  as  to  ride  over  with 
me  to-morrow  and  see.     I'll  prove  to  you  that  you've 


A   CLUMP   OF   LILACS  193 

either   done   your   work   carelessly,    or   that    you've 
copied  it  from  a  three  versts  to  the  inch  map.   .   .   .'  " 

"  But  why  was  he  so  certain  that  no  bushes  were 
there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lord,  why?  What  childish  questions  you  do 
ask  !  Because  he's  known  this  district  for  twenty 
years  ;  he  knows  it  better  than  his  own  bedroom. 
He's  the  most  fearful  pedant  in  the  world,  and  a 
German  besides.  .  .  .  Well,  of  course,  he'll  know 
in  the  end  that  I  was  lying  and  so  discussed  the  point 
with  him.  ..." 

All  the  time  he  spoke  he  kept  picking  up  burnt 
matches  from  the  ash-tray  on  the  table  in  front  of 
him,  and  breaking  them  to  little  bits.  When  he  ceased 
speaking,  he  threw  the  pieces  on  the  floor.  It  was 
quite  evident  that,  strong  man  though  he  was,  he  was 
very  near  weeping. 

For  a  long  while  husband  and  wife  sat  there  silent. 
Then  suddenly  Verotchka  jumped  up  from  her  seat. 

"  Listen,  Kolya,"  said  she.  "  We  must  go  this  very 
minute.     Make  haste  and  get  ready." 

Nikolai  Yevgrafovitch  wrinkled  up  his  face  as  if  he 
were  suffering  some  intolerable  pain. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  nonsense.  Vera,"  he  said.  "  You 
don't  think  I  can  go  and  put  matters  right  by  apolo- 
gising, do  you  ?  That  would  be  asking  for  punishment. 
Don't  be  foohsh,  please  !  " 

"  No,  it's  not  foolishness,"  said  Vera,  stamping  her 
foot.  "  Nobody  wants  you  to  go  and  apologise. 
But,  don't  you  see,  if  there  aren't  any  silly  old  trees 
there  we'd  better  go  and  put  some." 

"  Put  some — trees  !  "  exclaimed  Nikolai  Yevgrafo- 
vitch, his  eyes  staring. 


194  A  SLAV   SOUL 

"  Yes,  put  some  there.  If  you  didn't  speak  the 
truth,  then  you  must  make  it  true.  Come  along, 
get  ready.  Give  me  my  hat  .  .  .  and  coat.  No, 
not  there  ;   in  the  cupboard.  .  .  .  Umbrella  !  " 

And  while  Almazof,  finding  his  objections  entirely 
ignored,  began  to  look  for  the  hat  and  coat,  Vera 
opened  drawers  and  brought  out  various  little  boxes 
and  cases. 

"  Earrings.  .  .  .  No,  they're  no  good.  We  shan't 
get  anything  on  them.  Ah,  here's  this  ring  with  the 
valuable  stone.  We'll  have  to  buy  that  back  some  time. 
It  would  be  a  pity  to  lose  it.  Bracelet  .  .  .  they  won't 
give  much  for  that  either,  it's  old  and  bent.  .  .  . 
Where's  your  silver  cigar-case,  Kolya  ?  " 

In  five  minutes  all  their  valuables  were  in  her  hand- 
bag, and  Vera,  dressed  and  ready,  looked  round  for 
the  last  time  to  assure  herself  she  hadn't  overlooked 
anything. 

"  Let  us  go,"  she  said  at  last,  resolutely. 

"  But  where  ?  "  Almazof  tried  again  to  protest. 
"  It's  beginning  to  get  dark  already,  and  the  place 
is  ten  versts  away." 

"  Stupid  !     Come  along." 

First  of  all  they  went  to  the  pawnshop.  The 
pawnbroker  had  evidently  got  accustomed  long  ago 
to  the  sight  of  people  in  distress,  and  could  not  be 
touched  by  it.  He  was  so  methodical  about  his  work, 
and  took  so  long  to  value  the  things,  that  Vera  felt 
she  should  go  crazy.  What  specially  vexed  her  was 
that  the  man  should  test  her  ring  with  acid,  and 
then,  after  weighing  it,  he  valued  it  at  three  roubles 
only. 

"  But  it's  a  real  brilliant,"  said  poor  Vera.     "  It 


A    CLUMP    OF   LILACS  195 

cost    thirty -seven    roubles,    and    then     it     was     a 
bargain." 

The  pawnbroker  closed  his  eyes  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  is  frankly  bored. 

"  It's  all  the  same  to  us,  madam,"  said  he,  putting 
the  next  article  into  the  scales.  "  We  don't  take  the 
stones  into  consideration,  only  the  metals." 

To  Vera's  astonishment,  her  old  and  bent  bracelet 
was  more  valuable.  Altogether  they  got  about 
twenty-three  roubles,  and  that  was  more  than  was 
really  necessary. 

When  they  got  to  the  gardener's  house,  the  white 
Petersburg  night  had  already  spread  over  the  heavens, 
and  a  pearly  light  was  in  the  air.  The  gardener,  a 
Tchekh,  a  little  old  man  with  gold  eyeglasses,  had  only 
just  sat  down  to  supper  with  his  family.  He  was 
much  surprised  at  their  request,  and  not  altogether 
willing  to  take  such  a  late  order.  He  was  doubtless 
suspicious  of  a  practical  joke,  and  answered  dryly  to 
Vera's  insistent  demands  : 

"I'm  very  sorry.  But  I  can't  send  my  workmen 
so  far  at  night.  If  it  will  do  to-morrow  morning, 
I'm  quite  at  your  service." 

There  was  no  way  out  of  the  difficulty  but  to  tell 
the  man  the  whole  story  of  the  unfortunate  blot,  and 
this  Verotchka  did.  He  listened  doubtfully  at  first, 
and  was  almost  unfriendly,  but  when  Vera  began  to 
tell  him  of  her  plan  to  plant  some  bushes  on  the 
place,  he  became  more  attentive  and  smiled  sympa- 
thetically several  times. 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  not  much  to  do,"  he  agreed,  when 
Vera  had  finished  her  story.  "  What  sort  of  bushes 
do  you  want  ?  " 

o  2 


196  A  SLAV  SOUL 

However,  when  they  came  to  look  at  his  plants, 
there  was  nothing  very  suitable.  The  only  thing 
possible  to  put  on  the  spot  was  a  clump  of  lilacs. 

It  was  in  vain  for  Almazof  to  try  and  persuade 
his  wife  to  go  home.  She  went  all  the  way  with  him, 
and  stayed  all  the  time  the  bushes  were  planted, 
feverishly  fussing  about  and  hindering  the  workmen. 
She  only  consented  to  go  home  when  she  was 
assured  that  the  turf  under  the  bushes  could 
not  be  distinguished  from  the  rest  of  the  grass  round 
about. 

Next  day  Vera  felt  it  impossible  to  remain  in  the 
house.  She  went  out  to  meet  her  husband.  Quite 
a  long  way  off  she  knew,  by  a  slight  spring  in  his  walk, 
that  everything  had  gone  well.  .  .  .  True,  Almazof 
was  covered  in  dust,  and  he  could  hardly  move  from 
weariness  and  hunger,  but  his  face  shone  with  the 
triumph  of  victory. 

"  It's  all  right  !  Splendid  !  "  cried  he  when  within 
ten  paces  of  his  wife,  in  answer  to  the  anxious  expression 
on  her  face.  "  Just  think,  we  went  together  to  those 
bushes,  and  he  looked  and  looked  at  them — he  even 
plucked  a  leaf  and  chewed  it.  '  What  sort  of  a  tree 
is  this  ?  '  says  he." 

"  '  I  don't  know,  your  Excellency,'  said  I. 

"  '  It's  a  little  birch,  I  suppose,'  says  he. 

"  '  Yes,  probably,  your  Excellency.'  " 

Then  he  turned  to  me  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  lieutenant,'  he  says.  '  I 
must  be  getting  old,  that  I  didn't  remember  those 
bushes.'  He's  a  fine  man,  that  professor,  and  he 
knows  a  lot.  I  felt  quite  sorry  to  deceive  him.  He's 
one  of  the  best  professors  we  have.     His  learning  is 


A   CLUMP    OF   LILACS  197 

simply  wonderful.  And  how  quick  and  accurate  he 
is  in  marking  the  plans — marvellous  !  " 

But  this  meant  little  to  Vera.  She  wanted  to  hear 
over  and  over  again  exactly  what  the  professor  had 
said  about  the  bushes.  She  was  interested  in  the 
smallest  details — the  expression  on  the  professor's 
face,  the  tone  of  his  voice  when  he  said  he  must  be 
growing  old,  exactly  how  Kolya  felt  .  .  . 

They  went  home  together  as  if  there  had  been  no 
one  in  the  street  except  themselves,  holding  each 
other  by  the  hand  and  laughing  at  nothing.  The 
passers-by  stopped  to  look  at  them  ;  they  seemed 
such  a  strange  couple. 

Never  before  had  Nikolai  Yevgrafovitch  enjoyed 
his  dinner  so  much  as  on  that  day.  After  dinner, 
when  Vera  brought  a  glass  of  tea  to  him  in  the  study, 
husband  and  wife  suddenly  looked  at  one  another, 
and  both  laughed. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  asked  Vera. 

"  Well,  why  did  you  laugh  ?  "  said  her  husband. 

"  Oh,  only  foolishness.  I  was  thinking  all  about 
those  lilacs.     And  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  mine  was  foolishness  too — and  the  lilacs. 
I  was  just  going  to  say  that  now  the  lilac  will  always 
be  my  favourite  flower.  ..." 


XIII 
ANATHEMA 

"  Father  Deacon,  you're  wasting  the  candles,"  said 
the  deacon's  wife.     "  It's  time  to  get  up." 

This  small,  thin,  yellow-faced  woman  treated  her 
husband  very  harshly.  In  the  school  at  which  she 
had  been  educated  there  had  been  an  opinion  that 
men  were  scoundrels,  deceivers,  and  tyrants.  But  her 
husband,  the  deacon,  was  certainly  not  a  tyrant. 
He  was  absolutely  in  awe  of  his  half-hysterical,  half- 
epileptic,  childless  wife.  The  deacon  weighed  about 
nine  and  a  half  poods  ^  of  solid  flesh  ;  he  had  a  broad 
chest  like  the  body  of  a  motor-car,  an  awful  voice, 
and  with  it  all  that  gentle  condescension  of  manner 
which  often  marks  the  behaviour  of  extraordinarily 
strong  people  in  their  relations  towards  the  weak. 

It  always  took  the  deacon  a  long  time  to  get  his 
voice  in  order.  This  occupation — an  unpleasant,  long- 
drawn-out  torture — is,  of  course,  well  known  to  all 
those  who  have  to  sing  in  public  :  the  rubbing  with 
cocaine,  the  burning  with  caustic,  the  gargling  with 
boracic  acid.  And,  still  lying  upon  his  bed.  Father 
Olympus  began  to  try  his  voice. 

"  Via  .  .  .  kmm  !  Via-a-a  !  Alleluia,  alleluia. 
.  .  .  Oba-che  ,  .  .  kmm Ma-ma.  .  .  ." 

^  A  pood  is  40  Russian  lbs.,  about  36  lbs.  English. 


ANATHEMA  199 

"  There's  no  sound  in  my  voice,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  Vla-di-ko  bla-go-slo-ve-e-e.  .  .  .  Km.  ..." 

Like  all  famous  singers,  he  was  given  to  be  anxious 
about  his  voice.  It  is  well  known  that  actors  grow 
pale  and  cross  themselves  before  they  go  on  to  the 
stage.  And  Father  Olympus  suffered  from  this  vice 
of  fear.  Yet  he  was  the  only  man  in  the  town,  and 
possibly  in  all  Russia,  who  could  make  his  voice 
resound  in  the  old  dark  cathedral  church,  gleaming 
with  ancient  gold  and  mosaic. 

He  alone  could  fill  all  the  corners  of  the  old  building 
with  his  powerful  voice,  and  when  he  intoned  the 
funeral  service  every  crystal  lustre  in  the  candelabras 
trembled  and  jingled  with  the  sound. 

His  prim  wife  brought  him  in  a  glass  of  weak  tea 
with  lemon  in  it,  and,  as  usual  on  Sunday  mornings, 
a  glass  of  vodka.  Olympus  tried  his  voice  once  more  : 
"  Mi  ...  mi  ...  fa.  ..  .  Mi-ro-no-citsi.  .  .  .  Here. 
mother,"  called  he  to  his  wife,  *'  give  me  re  on  the 
harmonium." 

His  wife  sounded  a  long  melancholy  note. 

"Km  .  .  .  km.  .  .  .  Pharaoh  and  his  chariots.  .  ,  . 
No,  no,  I  can't  do  it,  my  voice  has  gone.  The  devil 
must  have  got  into  me  from  that  writer,  what's  his 
name  ?  .  .  ." 

Father  Olympus  was  very  fond  of  reading  ;  he 
read  much  and  indiscriminately,  but  paid  very  little 
attention  to  the  names  of  the  authors.  His  seminary 
education,  based  chiefly  on  learning  by  heart,  on 
reading  "  rubrics,"  on  learning  indispensable  quotations 
from  the  fathers  of  the  Church,  had  developed  his 
memory  to  an  unusual  degree.  In  order  to  get  by 
heart  a  whole  page  of  compHcated  casuistical  reasoning. 


200  A  SLAV   SOUL 

such  as  that  of  St.  Augustine,  Tertullian,  Origen, 
Basil  the  Great  or  St.  John  Chrysostom,  it  was  quite 
sufficient  for  him  to  run  his  eye  over  the  hues,  and  he 
would  remember  them.  It  was  a  student  from  the 
Bethany  Academy  who  brought  him  books  to  read, 
and  only  the  evening  before  he  had  given  him  a 
delightful  romance,  a  picture  of  life  in  the  Caucasus, 
of  soldiers,  Cossacks,  Tchetchenians,  and  how  they 
lived  there  and  fought  one  another,  drank  wine, 
married,  hunted. 

The  reading  of  this  tale  had  disturbed  the  elementary 
soul  of  the  deacon.  He  had  read  it  three  times  over, 
and  often  during  the  reading  had  laughed  and  wept 
emotionally,  clenching  his  fists  and  turning  his  huge 
body  from  one  side  to  the  other  in  his  chair.  He 
continually  asked  himself,  "  Would  it  not  have  been 
better  to  have  been  a  hunter,  a  trapper,  a  fisherman, 
a  horseman,  anything  rather  than  a  clergyman  ?  " 

V  "I*  '!•  V  •!* 

He  was  always  a  little  later  in  coming  into  the 
cathedral  than  he  ought  to  have  been.  Just  like  a 
famous  baritone  at  a  theatre.  As  he  came  through 
the  south  door  into  the  sanctuary,  on  this  Sunday 
morning,  he  tried  his  voice  for  the  last  time.  "  Km 
.  .  .  km.  ...  I  can  sing  re,"  he  thought.  "  But 
that  scoundrel  will  certainly  give  me  the  tone  on  doh. 
Never  mind,  I  must  change  it  to  my  note,  and  the 
choir  will  be  obliged  to  follow." 

There  awoke  in  him  that  pride  which  always 
slumbers  in  the  breast  of  a  public  favourite,  for  he 
was  spoilt  by  the  whole  town  ;  even  the  street-boys 
used  to  collect  together  to  stare  at  him  with  a  similar 
veneration  to  that  with  which  they  gazed  into  the 


ANATHEMA  201 

immense  mouth  of  the  brass  hehcon  in  the  military 
band  on  the  boulevard. 

The  bishop  entered  and  was  solemnly  installed  in 
his  seat.  He  wore  his  mitre  a  little  on  one  side. 
Two  sub-deacons  stood  beside  him  with  censers, 
swinging  them  harmoniously.  The  clergy,  in  bright 
festival  robes,  stood  around.  Two  priests  brought 
forward  from  the  altar  the  ikons  of  the  Saviour  and 
the  Virgin-Mother,  and  placed  them  on  a  stand  before 
the  people. 

The  cathedral  was  an  ancient  building,  and  had  a 
pulpit  of  carved  oak  like  that  of  a  Catholic  church. 
It  stood  close  up  to  the  wall,  and  was  reached  by  a 
winding  staircase.     This  was  the  deacon's  place. 

Slowly,  trying  each  step  as  he  went,  and  carefully 
resting  his  hands  on  the  balustrade — he  was  always 
afraid  of  breaking  something  accidentally — the  deacon 
went  up  into  the  pulpit.  Then,  clearing  his  throat 
and  nose  and  expectorating,  he  struck  the  tuning- 
fork,  passed  deliberately  from  doh  to  re,  and  began  : 

"  Bless  us,  most  reverend  Father." 

"  Now,  you  scoundrel,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
apostrophising  the  leader  of  the  choir;  "you  won't 
dare  to  change  the  tone  in  the  presence  of  the  bishop." 
At  that  moment  he  felt,  with  pleasure,  that  his  voice 
sounded  much  better  than  usual ;  it  was  quite  easy 
to  pass  from  one  note  to  another,  and  its  soft  depth 
of  tone  caused  all  the  air  in  the  cathedral  to  vibrate. 

It  was  the  Orthodox  service  for  the  first  week  in 
Lent,  and,  at  first,  Father  Olympus  had  not  much 
work.  The  reader  trumpeted  out  the  psalms  in- 
distinctly ;  he  was  a  deacon  from  the  academy,  a 
future  professor  of  homiletics,  and  he  snuffled. 


202  A  SLAV  SOUL 

Father  Olympus  roared  out  from  time  to  time, 
"  Let  us  pray."  He  stood  there  on  his  raised  platform, 
immense,  in  his  stiff  vestment  of  gilt  brocade,  his 
mane  of  grey-black  hair  hanging  on  his  shoulders, 
and  every  now  and  then  he  tried  his  voice  quietly. 
The  church  was  full  to  the  doors  with  sentimental 
old  peasant  women  and  sturdy  grey-bearded  peasants. 

"  Strange,"  thought  Olympus  to  himself  suddenly, 
"  but  every  one  of  these  women's  heads,  if  I  look  at 
it  from  the  side,  reminds  me  inevitably  either  of  the 
head  of  a  fish  or  of  a  hen's  head.  Even  the  deaconess, 
my  wife.  ..." 

His  attention,  however,  was  not  diverted  from  the 
service.  He  followed  it  all  along  in  his  seventeenth- 
century  missal.  The  prayers  came  to  an  end : 
"  Almighty  God,  Master  and  Creator  of  all  living." 
And  at  last,  "  Amen." 

Then  began  the  affirmation  of  Orthodoxy.  "  Who 
is  as  great  as  the  Lord,  as  our  God  ?  Thou  art  the 
God  who  alone  doest  wonders."  The  chant  had 
many  turns  in  it,  and  was  not  particularly  clear. 
Generally  during  the  first  week  in  Lent  there  follows, 
at  this  point,  the  ritual  of  anathema,  which  can  be 
altered  or  omitted  as  may  be  thought  fit  by  the  bishop. 
There  is  a  list  of  persons  to  be  anathematised  for 
special  reasons,  Mazeppa  is  cursed,  Stenka  Razin, 
Arius  the  iconoclast,  the  old-believer  Avvakum, 
etc.,  etc. 

But  the  deacon  was  not  quite  himself  to-day. 
Certainly  he  must  have  been  a  little  upset  by  the 
vodka  his  wife  had  given  him  that  morning.  For 
some  reason  or  other  he  could  not  get  the  story  which 
he  had  read  the  previous  night  out  of  his  mind.     He 


ANATHEMA  203 

kept  seeing  clear  and  vivid  pictures  of  a  beautiful, 
simple,  and  boundlessly  attractive  life.  Almost 
mechanically  he  went  through  the  Creed,  chanted 
the  Amen,  and  proclaimed  according  to  an  ancient 
custom  to  an  old  and  solemn  tone  :  "  This  is  the 
faith  of  the  apostles,  this  is  the  faith  of  our  fathers, 
this  is  the  Orthodox  faith,  this  is  the  universal  faith, 
this  faith  is  ours." 

The  archbishop  was  a  great  formalist,  a  pedant,  and 
a  somewhat  eccentric  man.     He  never  allowed  a  word 
to  be  dropped  out  of  the  text  of  the  canon  of  our 
thrice-blessed  Father  Andrew  of  Crete,  or  from  the 
funeral  service  or  from  any  other  rite.     And  Father 
Olympus,    imperturbably    causing    the    cathedral    to 
vibrate  with  his  lion's  roar,  and  making  the  lustres 
of  the  candelabra  jingle  and  sound  as  they  moved, 
cursed,  anathematised  and  excommunicated  from  the 
Church  the  iconoclasts,  all  the  ancient  heretics  from 
Arius   onward,    all   those   accepting   the   teaching    of 
Ital,  of  the  monk  Nil,  of  Constantine  Bulgaris  and 
Irinik,   of  Varlaam   and  Akindin,   of   Gerontius   and 
Isaac  Agrir  ;    cursed  those  who  insulted  the  Church, 
all   Mahometans,    Dissenters   and   Judaizers ;     cursed 
the  reproachers  of  the  festival  of  the  Annunciation, 
smugglers,    offenders    of    widows    and    orphans,    the 
Old-Believers,  the  rebels  and  traitors,  Grishka,  Otrepief, 
Timoshka  Akundinof,  Stenka  Razin,  Ivashka  Mazeppa, 
Emelka  Pugachof,  as  well  as  all  those  who  uphold 
any  teaching  contrary  to  that  of  the  Orthodox  faith. 
Then    the    extent    of   the    curse   was    proclaimed : 
denial  of  the  blessings  of  redemption,  exclusion  from 
the  Holy  Sacraments,  and  expulsion  from  the  assembly 
of  the  holy  fathers  and  their  inheritance. 


204  A  SLAV  SOUL 

Curses  were  pronounced  on  those  who  do  not  think 
that  the  Orthodox  Tsar  was  raised  to  the  throne  by 
the  special  will  of  God,  when  at  his  anointing,  at  the 
commencement  of  his  high  calhng,  the  holy  oil  was 
poured  out  upon  him  ;  also  on  those  daring  to  stir 
up  sedition  against  him  ;  on  those  who  abuse  and 
blaspheme  the  holy  ikons.  And  to  each  of  these 
proclamations  the  choir  responded  in  a  mournful 
wail,  tender  angelic  voices  giving  the  response, 
"  Anathema." 

The  women  had  long  been  weeping  hysterically. 

The  deacon  was  about  to  end  by  singing  the  "  Eternal 
Memory  "  for  all  those  departed  this  life  in  the  true 
faith,  when  the  psalm-singer  brought  him  a  httle 
note  from  the  priest,  telling  him  that  his  Eminence 
the  archbishop  had  ordered  that  Count  Leo  Tolstoy 
was  to  be  anathematised. 

The  deacon's  throat  was  sore  from  much  reading. 
But  he  cleared  his  throat  by  a  cough,  and  began 
once  more  :  "  Bless  us,  most  reverend  Father."  He 
guessed,  rather  than  heard,  the  feeble  mutterings 
of  the  aged  prelate  : 

"  The  proto-deacon  will  now,  by  the  grace  of  God, 
pronounce  a  curse  upon  a  blasphemer  and  apostate 
from  the  faith  of  Christ,  and  expel  from  the  Holy 
Sacraments  of  the  Church  Count  Leo  Tolstoy.  In 
the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the 
Holy  Ghost." 

"  Amen,"  sang  the  choir. 

Father  Olympus  felt  his  hair  stand  on  end.  It 
seemed  to  stick  out  on  all  sides,  and  become  stiff  and 
painful  as  if  turning  into  steel  wire.  And  at  that 
moment    his    memory    recalled    with    extraordinary 


ANATHEMA  205 

clearness  the  tender  words  of  the  story^  he  had  read 
the  previous  night : 

"Rousing  himself,  Yeroshka  raised  his  head  and  watched 
the  moths  fluttering  around  the  flickering  flame  of  his  candle 
and  falling  therein. 

"  '  Fool  I  fool  1 '  said  he  to  one.  '  Whither  are  you  flying  ? 
Fool  !  fool  1 '  He  got  up  and  drove  the  moths  away  with  his 
clumsy  fingers. 

"'You'll  burn  yourself,  little  fool;  come,  flyaway,  there's 
plenty  of  room  here,'  said  he,  coaxing  one  of  them  with  gentle 
voice,  and  striving  to  catch  hold  of  it  by  the  wings  and  send 
it  away.  '  You'll  destroy  yourself,  and  then  I  shall  be  sorry 
for  you.'  " 

"  Good  Lord  !  Who  is  it  I  am  to  curse  ?  "  said 
the  deacon  to  himself  in  terror.  "  Is  it  possibly  he — 
he  who  made  me  feel  so  much,  and  weep  all  last 
night  for  joy  and  rapture  ?  " 

But,  obedient  to  a  thousand-year-old  custom,  he 
repeated  the  terribly  moving  words  of  cursing  and 
excommunication,  and  they  resounded  among  the 
crowd  like  blows  upon  a  large  church  bell. 

So  the  curse  went  on  :  "  The  ex-priest  Nikita, 
the  monks  Sergei,  Sabatius — yes,  Sabatius — Dorofei, 
Gabriel — blasphemers,  impenitent  and  stubborn  in 
their  heresy — and  all  who  act  contrary  to  the  will  of 
God,  be  they  accursed  !  .   .   /' 

He  waited  a  moment  to  take  breath.  His  face 
was  red  and  perspiring.  The  arteries  on  both  sides 
of  his  throat  were  swollen,  each  a  finger's  thickness. 
And  all  the  while  he  proclaimed  the  curse,  Tolstoy's 
thoughts  were  in  his  mind.  He  remembered  another 
passage  : 

"  Once  as  I  sat  beside  a  stream  I  saw  a  httle  cradle  come 
floating  bottom  upwards  towards  me.  It  was  quite  whole,  only 
the  edges  a  little  broken.     And  I  thought — whose  cradle  is  it  ? 

1  Evidently,  "  The  Cossacks,"  by  Tolstoy. — [Ed.] 


2o6  A  SLAV   SOUL 

Those  devils  of  soldiers  have  been  to  a  hamlet  and  taken 
away  all  the  stores  ;  one  of  them  must  have  killed  a  little 
child  and  cut  the  cradle  down  from  its  corner  with  his  knife. 
Hew  can  people  do  such  things  ?  Ah,  people  have  no  souls  ! 
And  at  such  thoughts  I  became  very  sad.  I  thought — they 
threw  the  cradle  away  and  drove  out  the  mother  and  burned 
the  home,  and  by  and  by  they'll  come  to  us.   ..." 

Still  he  went  on  with  the  curse : 

"  Those  sinning  against  the  Holy  Ghost,  like  Simon 
the  sorcerer  and  Ananias  and  Sapphira.  As  the  dog 
returns  to  its  own  vomit  again,  may  their  days  be 
few  and  evil,  and  may  their  prayers  be  turned  into 
sin  ;  may  Satan  stand  at  their  right  hand  ;  when 
they  are  judged  let  them  be  condemned,  let  their 
names  be  blotted  out  and  the  memory  of  them  perish 
from  the  earth  .  .  .  and  may  the  curses  and  anathemas 
that  fall  upon  them  be  manifold.  May  there  come 
upon  them  the  trembling  of  Cain,  the  leprosy  of 
Gehazi,  the  strangling  of  Judas,  the  destruction  of 
Simon  the  sorcerer,  the  bursting  of  Arius,  the  sudden 
death  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira  ...  be  they  anathema 
and  excommunicate,  and  unforgiven  even  in  their 
death  ;  may  their  bones  be  scattered  and  not  buried 
in  the  earth  ;  may  they  be  in  eternal  torment,  and 
tortured  by  day  and  night.  ..." 

But  Tolstoy  had  said  : 

"  God  has  made  the  world  to  be  a  joy  to  man.  There  is  no 
sin  anywhere,  not  even  in  the  life  of  a  beast.  He  lives  in  one 
place,  lives  in  another.  Where  he  is  there  is  his  home.  What 
God  gives  he  takes.  But  we  say  that  for  such  things  we  shall 
have  to  suffer.     I  think  that  is  all  one  big  falsehood.  ..." 

The  deacon  stopped  suddenly,  and  let  his  ancient 
missal  fall  with  a  bang.  Still  more  dreadful  curses 
were  to   come,   words  which   could   only  have    been 


ANATHEMA  207 

imagined  by  the  narrow  minds  of  monks  in  the  early 
centuries  of  Christianity. 

His  face  had  become  purple,  almost  black ;  his 
fingers  convulsively  grasped  the  rail  of  the  desk. 
For  a  moment  he  felt  that  he  must  swoon.  But  he 
recovered,  and  straining  the  whole  might  of  his 
tremendous  voice,  he  burst  forth  triumphantly  with 
new  words,  wrong  words  : 

"  The  joy  of  our  earth,  the  ornament  and  the  flower 
of  hfe,  the  true  servant  and  fellow-soldier  of  Christ, 
Count  Leo.   .   .   ." 

He  was  silent  for  a  second.  In  the  crowded  church 
there  was  not  a  cough,  not  a  whisper  nor  a  shufHe  of 
the  foot.  There  was  a  terrible  silence,  the  silence  of 
hundreds  of  people  dominated  by  one  will,  overcome  by 
one  feeling.  The  eyes  of  the  deacon  were  burning 
and  brimming  over  with  tears,  his  face  became  suddenly 
beautiful  as  the  face  of  a  man  in  an  ecstasy  of  inspira- 
tion. He  cleared  his  throat  once  more,  tried  an 
octave,  and  then  suddenly  filling  the  enormous  cathe- 
dral with  the  tones  of  his  terrible  voice,  he  roared  out : 

"  Mno-ga-ya  lye-e-e-ta-a-a.  Ma-any  ye-e-ears."  And 
instead  of  turning  the  candle  upside  down,  according 
to  the  rite  of  anathema,  he  raised  it  high  in  the  air. 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  leader  of  the  choir  whispered 
to  his  boys  to  knock  the  deacon's  head  with  the 
tuning-fork,  or  to  put  their  hands  over  his  mouth. 
Joyfully,  as  if  an  archangel  were  blowing  a  trumpet 
with  silver  tones,  the  deacon  lifted  his  voice  over  the 
whole  congregation :  "  Mnogaya,  mnogaya,  mnogaya 
lyeta." 

The  prior,  a  monk,  an  official,  the  psalm-reader 
and  the  deaconess  rushed  up  to  him. 


2o8  A  SLAV  SOUL 

"  Leave  me  alone  .  .  .  leave  me  alone,"  said 
Father  Olympus  in  an  angry  whisper,  roughly  pushing 
away  the  monk's  arm.  "  I've  spoilt  my  voice,  but  it 
has  been  for  the  glory  of  God.     Go  away  !  .   .   ." 

He  took  off  his  brocaded  vestment  at  the  altar, 
kissed  his  stole  with  emotion,  crossed  himself  before 
the  altar  ikon,  and  went  out  of  the  church.  He  went 
out,  a  whole  head  taller  than  the  people  round  him, 
immense,  majestic,  solemn.  And  the  people  involun- 
tarily made  way  for  him,  looking  at  him  with  a  strange 
timorousness.  His  look  was  adamant  as  he  passed  the 
bishop's  chair,  and  without  turning  his  eyes  that  way 
he  strode  out  into  the  vestibule. 

In  the  open  space  before  the  church  his  little  wife 
caught  him  up,  and  weeping  and  pulling  his  cassock 
by  the  sleeve,  she  gasped  : 

"  What  have  you  gone  and  done,  idiot,  cursed  one  ! 
Been  guzzling  vodka  all  the  morning,  disgraceful 
drunkard  !  You'll  be  in  luck's  way  if  you  only  get 
sent  to  a  monastery  for  this,  and  given  a  scavenger's 
job.  Booh  !  You,  Cossack  of  Cherkask  !  How  many 
people's  doorsteps  shall  I  have  to  wear  out  to  get 
you  out  of  this  ?     Herod  !     Oh,  you  stupid  bungler  !  " 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  whispered  the  deacon  to 
himself,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  "  I  will  go  and 
carry  bricks  or  be  a  signalman  or  a  sledge  driver  or  a 
house  porter ;  but,  anyhow,  I  shall  give  up  my  post. 
Yes,  to-morrow — I  don't  want  to  go  on  ;  I  can't  any 
longer.  My  soul  won't  stand  it.  I  firmly  beUeve  in 
the  Creed  and  in  Christ,  and  in  the  Apostolic  Church. 
But  I  can't  assent  to  malice.  '  God  has  made  the 
world  to  be  a  joy  to  man,'  "  he  quoted  suddenly  the 
beautiful,  familiar  words. 


ANATHEMA  209 

"  You're  a  fool,  a  blockhead,"  cried  his  wife.  "  I'll 
have  to  put  you  in  an  asylum.  I'll  go  to  the  governor — 
to  the  Tsar  himself.  You've  drunk  yourself  into  a 
fever,  you  wooden-head  !  " 

Father  Olympus  stood  still,  turned  to  her,  and  open- 
ing wide  his  wrathful  eyes,  said  impressively  and 
harshly  : 

"  Well  ?  !  " 

At  that  the  deaconess  became  timidly  silent,  walked 
a  little  way  from  her  husband,  covered  her  face  with 
her  handkerchief,  and  began  to  weep. 

And  the  deacon  continued  his  way,  an  immense 
figure,  dark,  majestical,  like  a  man  carved  out  of 
stone. 


B.I. 


XIV 
TEMPTING   PROVIDENCE 

You're  always  saying  "  accident,  accident,  .  .  ." 
That's  just  the  point.  What  I  want  to  say  is  that  on 
every  merest  accident  it  is  possible  to  look  more 
deeply. 

Permit  me  to  remark  that  I  am  already  sixty  years 
old.  And  this  is  just  the  age  when,  after  all  the  noisy 
passions  of  his  youth,  a  man  must  choose  one  of  three 
ways  of  life  :  money-making,  ambition,  or  philosophy. 
For  my  part  I  think  there  are  only  two  paths. 
Ambition  must,  sooner  or  later,  take  the  form  of  getting 
something  for  oneself — money  or  power — in  acquiring 
and  extending  either  earthly  or  heavenly  possibilities. 

I  don't  dare  to  call  myself  a  philosopher,  that's  too 
high-flown  a  title  for  me  ...  it  doesn't  go  with  my 
character.  I'm  the  sort  of  person  who  might  anytime 
be  called  upon  to  show  his  credentials.  But  all  the 
same,  my  life  has  been  extremely  broad  and  very  varied. 
I  have  seen  riches  and  poverty  and  sickness,  war  and 
the  loss  of  friends,  prison,  love,  ruin,  faith,  unbelief. 
And  I've  even — believe  it  or  not,  as  you  please — 
I've  even  seen  people.  Perhaps  you  think  that  a 
foolish  remark  ?  But  it's  not.  For  one  man  to  see 
another  and  understand  him,  he  must  first  of  all 
forget  his  own  personality,  forget  to  consider  what 
impression  he  himself  is  making  on  his  neighbours 


TEMPTING    PROVIDENCE  211 

and  what  a  fine  figure  he  cuts  in  the  world.     There  are 
very  few  who  can  see  other  people,  I  assure  you. 

Well,  here  I  am,  a  sinful  man,  and  in  my  declining 
years  I  love  to  ponder  upon  life.  I  am  old,  and  solitary 
as  well,  and  you  can't  think  how  long  the  nights  are  to 
us  old  folk.  My  heart  and  my  memory  have  preserved 
for  me  thousands  of  living  recollections — of  myself 
and  of  others.  But  it's  one  thing  to  chew  the  cud  of 
recollection  as  a  cow  chews  nettles,  and  quite  another 
to  consider  things  with  wisdom  and  judgment.  And 
that's  what  I  call  philosophy. 

We've  been  talking  of  accident  and  fate.  I  quite 
agree  with  you  that  the  happenings  of  life  seem  sense- 
less, capricious,  blind,  aimless,  simply  foolish.  But 
over  them  all — that  is,  over  millions  of  happenings 
interwoven  together,  there  reigns — I  am  perfectly 
certain  of  this — an  inexorable  law.  Everything  passes 
and  returns  again,  is  born  again  out  of  a  little  thing, 
out  of  nothing,  burns  and  tortures  itself,  rejoices, 
reaches  a  height  and  falls,  and  then  returns  again 
and  again,  as  if  twining  itself  about  the  spiral  curve 
of  the  flight  of  time.  And  this  spiral  having  been 
accomplished,  it  in  its  turn  winds  back  again  for  many 
years,  returning  and  passing  over  its  former  place, 
and  then  making  a  new  curve — a  spiral  of  spirals.  .  .  . 
And  so  on  without  end. 

Of  course  you'll  say  that  if  this  law  is  really  in  exist- 
ence people  would  long  ago  have  discovered  it  and  would 
be  able  to  define  its  course  and  make  a  kind  of  map  of 
it.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  We  are  like  weavers, 
sitting  close  up  to  an  infinitely  long  and  infinitely  broad 
web.  There  are  certain  colours  before  our  eyes,  flowers, 
blues,  purples,  greens,  all  moving,  moving  and  pass- 

p  2 


212  A  SLAV   SOUL 

ing  .  .  .  but  because  we're  so  near  to  it  we  can't 
make  out  the  pattern.  Only  those  who  are  able  to 
stand  above  life,  higher  than  we  do,  gentle  scholars, 
prophets,  dreamers,  saints  and  poets,  these  may  have 
occasional  glimpses  through  the  confusion  of  life,  and 
their  keen  inspired  gaze  may  see  the  beginnings  of  a 
harmonious  design,  and  may  divine  its  end. 

You  think  I  express  myself  extravagantly  ?  Don't 
you  now  ?  But  wait  a  little ;  perhaps  I  can  put  it 
more  clearly.  You  musn't  let  me  bore  you,  though.  .  .  . 
Yet  what  can  one  do  on  a  railway  journey  except  talk  ? 

I  agree  that  there  are  laws  of  Nature  governing  alike 
in  their  wisdom  the  courses  of  the  stars  and  the  diges- 
tion of  beetles.  I  believe  in  such  laws  and  I  revere 
them.  But  there  is  Something  or  Somebody  stronger 
than  Fate,  greater  than  the  world.  If  it  is  Something, 
I  should  call  it  the  law  of  logical  absurdity,  or  of  absurd 
logicality,  just  as  you  please.  ...  I  can't  express  myself 
very  well.  If  it  is  Somebody,  then  it  must  be  someone 
in  comparison  with  whom  our  biblical  devil  and  our 
romantic  Satan  are  but  puny  jesters  and  harmless 
rogues. 

Imagine  to  yourself  an  almost  godlike  Power  over 
this  world,  having  a  desperate  childish  love  of  playing 
tricks,  knowing  neither  good  nor  evil,  but  always 
mercilessly  hard,  sagacious,  and,  devil  take  it  all, 
somehow  strangely  just.  You  don't  understand, 
perhaps  ?  Then  let  me  illustrate  my  meaning  by 
examples. 

Take  Napoleon  :  a  marvellous  life,  an  almost  impos- 
sibly great  personality,  inexhaustible  power,  and  look 
at  his  end — on  a  tiny  island,  suffering  from  disease 
of  the  bladder,  complaining  of  the  doctors,  of  his  food, 


TEMPTING    PROVIDENCE  213 

senile  grumblings  in  solitude.  ...  Of  course,  this 
pitiful  end  was  simply  a  mocking  laugh,  a  derisive 
smile  on  the  face  of  my  mysterious  Somebody.  But 
consider  this  tragic  biography  thoughtfully,  putting 
aside  all  the  explanations  of  learned  people — they 
would  explain  it  all  simply  in  accordance  with  law — 
and  I  don't  know  how  it  will  appear  to  you,  but  here  I 
see  clearly  existing  together  this  mixture  of  absurdity 
and  logicality,  and  I  cannot  possibly  explain  it  to 
myself. 

Then  General  Skobelef.  A  great,  a  splendid  figure. 
Desperate  courage,  and  a  kind  of  exaggerated  belief 
in  his  own  destiny.  He  always  mocked  at  death, 
went  into  a  murderous  fire  of  the  enemy  with  bravado, 
and  courted  endless  risks  in  a  kind  of  unappeasable 
thirst  for  danger.  And  see — he  died  on  a  common  bed, 
in  a  hired  room  in  the  company  of  prostitutes.  Again 
I  say  :  absurd,  cruel,  yet  somehow  logical.  It  is  as  if 
each  of  these  pitiful  deaths  by  their  contrast  with  the 
life,  rounded  off,  blended,  completed,  two  splendid 
beings. 

The  ancients  knew  and  feared  this  mysterious 
Someone — you  remember  the  ring  of  Polycrates — 
but  they  mistook  his  jest  for  the  envy  of  Fate. 

I  assure  you — i.e.,  I  don't  assure  you,  but  I  am  deeply 
assured  of  it  myself— that  sometime  or  other,  perhaps 
after  thirty  thousand  years,  life  on  this  earth  will  have 
become  marvellously  beautiful.  There  will  be  palaces, 
gardens,  fountains.  .  .  .  The  burdens  now  borne  by 
mankind — slavery,  private  ownership  of  property, 
lies,  and  oppression — will  cease.  There  will  be  no  more 
sickness,  disorder,  death  ;  no  more  envy,  no  vice, 
no  near  or  far,  all  will  have  become  brothers.     And 


214  A   SLAV   SOUL 

then  He — you  notice  that  even  in  speaking  I  pronounce 
the  name  with  a  capital  letter — He,  passing  one  day 
through  the  universe,  will  look  on  us,  frown  evilly, 
smile,  and  then  breathe  upon  the  world — and  the  good 
old  Earth  will  cease  to  be.  A  sad  end  for  this  beautiful 
planet,  eh  ?  But  just  think  to  what  a  terrible  bloody 
orgiastic  end  universal  virtue  might  lead,  if  once 
people  succeeded  in  getting  thoroughly  surfeited  by  it  ! 

However,  what's  the  use  of  taking  such  great  examples 
as  our  earth.  Napoleon,  and  the  ancient  Greeks  ?  I 
myself  have,  from  time  to  time,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
this  strange  and  inscrutable  law  in  the  most  ordinary 
occurrences,  li  you  like,  I'll  tell  you  a  simple  inci- 
dent when  I  myself  clearly  felt  the  mocking  breath  of 
this  god. 

I  was  travelling  by  train  from  Tomsk  to  Petersburg 
in  an  ordinary  first-class  compartment.  One  of  my 
companions  on  the  journey  was  a  young  civil  engineer, 
a  very  short,  stout,  good-natured  young  man :  a 
simple  Russian  face,  round,  well-cared  for,  white 
eyebrows  and  eyelashes,  sparse  hair  brushed  up  from 
his  forehead,  showing  the  red  skin  beneath  ...  a  kind, 
good  "  Yorkshireman."  His  eyes  were  like  the  dull 
blue  eyes  of  a  sucking  pig. 

He  proved  a  very  pleasant  companion.  I  have 
rarely  seen  anyone  with  such  engaging  manners.  He 
at  once  gave  me  his  lower  sleeping-place,  helped  me 
to  place  my  trunk  on  the  rack,  and  was  generally  so 
kind  that  he  even  made  me  feel  a  little  awkward. 
When  we  stopped  at  a  station  he  bought  wine  and 
food,  and  had  evidently  great  pleasure  in  persuading 

the  company  to  share  them  with  him. 

I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  bubbling  over  with  some 


TEMPTING   PROVIDENCE  215 

great  inward  happiness,  and  that  he  was  desirous  of 
seeing  all  around  him  as  happy  as  he  was. 

And  this  proved  to  be  the  case.  In  ten  minutes 
he  had  already  began  to  open  his  heart  to  me.  Cer- 
tainly I  noticed  that  directly  he  spoke  of  himself  the 
other  people  in  the  carriage  seemed  to  wriggle  in  their 
seats  and  take  an  exaggerated  interest  in  observing 
the  passing  landscape.  Later  on,  I  reahsed  that  each 
of  them  had  heard  the  story  at  least  a  dozen  times 
before.     And  now  my  turn  had  come. 

The  engineer  had  come  from  the  Far  East,  where  he 
had  been  living  for  five  years,  and  consequently  he 
had  not  seen  his  family  in  Petersburg  for  five  years. 
He  had  thought  to  dispatch  his  business  in  a  year  at 
the  most,  but  at  first  official  duties  had  kept  him, 
then  certain  profitable  enterprises  had  turned  up,  and 
after  it  had  seemed  impossible  to  leave  a  business 
which  had  become  so  very  large  and  remunerative. 
Now  everything  had  been  wound  up  and  he  was 
returning  home.  Who  could  blame  him  for  his 
talkativeness  ;  to  have  lived  for  five  years  far  from  a 
beloved  home,  and  come  back  young,  healthy,  success- 
ful, with  a  heart  full  of  unspent  love  !  What  man 
could  have  imposed  silence  upon  himself,  or  overcome 
that  fearful  itch  of  impatience,  increasing  with  every 
hour,  with  every  passing  hundred  versts  ? 

I  soon  learnt  from  him  all  about  his  family.  His 
wife's  name  was  Susannah  or  Sannochka,  and  his 
daughter  bore  the  outlandish  name  of  Yurochka. 
He  had  left  her  a  little  three-year-old  girl,  and  "  Just 
imagine  !  "  cried  he,  "  now  she  must  be  quite  grown 
up,  almost  ready  to  be  married." 

He  told  me  his  wife's  maiden  name,  and  of  the  poverty 


2i6  A  SLAV  SOUL 

they  had  experienced  together  in  their  early  married 
days,  when  he  had  been  a  student  in  his  last  year, 
and  had  not  even  a  second  pair  of  trousers  to  wear, 
and  what  a  splendid  companion,  nurse,  mother,  and 
sister  in  one,  his  wife  had  been  to  him  then. 

He  struck  his  breast  with  his  clenched  fist,  his  face 
reddened  with  pride,  and  his  eyes  flashed,  as  he  cried  : 

"  If  only  you  knew  her  !  A  be-eauty  !  If  you're 
in  Petersburg  I  must  introduce  you  to  her.  You 
must  certainly  come  and  see  us  there,  you  must, 
indeed,  without  any  ceremony  or  excuse,  Kirochnaya 
156.  I'll  introduce  you  to  her,  and  you'll  see  my  old 
woman  for  yourself.  A  Queen  !  She  was  always 
the  belle  at  our  civil-engineers'  balls.  You  must 
come  and  see  us,  I  swear,  or  I  shall  be  offended." 

And  he  gave  us  each  one  of  his  visiting  cards  on 
which  he  had  pencilled  out  his  Manchurian  address, 
and  written  in  the  Petersburg  one,  telling  us  at  the 
same  time  that  his  sumptuous  fiat  had  been  taken  by 
his  wife  only  a  year  ago — he  had  insisted  on  it  when 
his  business  had  reached  its  height. 

Yes,  his  talk  was  like  a  waterfall.  Four  times  a  day, 
when  we  stopped  at  important  stations,  he  would 
send  home  a  reply-paid  telegram  to  be  delivered  to 
him  at  the  next  big  stopping-place  or  simply  on  the 
train,  addressed  to  such  and  such  a  number,  first-class 
passenger.  So  and-so.  .  .  .  And  you  ought  to  have 
seen  him  when  the  conductor  came  along  shouting  in  a 
sing-song  tone  "  Telegram  for  first-class  passenger  So- 
and-so.  ' '  I  assure  you  there  was  a  shining  halo  round 
his  head  hke  that  of  the  holy  saints.  He  tipped  the 
conductors  royally,  and  not  the  conductors  only  either. 
He  had  an  insatiable  desire  to  give  to  everybody. 


TEMPTING    PROVIDENCE  217 

to  make  people  happy,  to  caress  them.  He  gave  us 
all  souvenirs,  knicknacks  made  out  of  Siberian  and 
Ural  stones,  trinkets,  studs,  pins,  Chinese  rings,  jade 
images,  and  other  trifles.  Among  them  were  many 
things  that  were  very  valuable,  some  on  account  of 
their  cost,  others  for  their  rare  and  artistic  work,  yet, 
do  you  know,  it  was  impossible  to  refuse  them,  though 
one  felt  embarrassed  and  awkward  in  receiving  such 
valuable  gifts — he  begged  us  to  accept  them  with  such 
earnestness  and  insistence,  just  as  one  cannot  con- 
tinue to  refuse  a  child  who  continues  to  ask  one  to  take 
a  sweet. 

He  had  with  him  in  his  boxes  and  in  his  hand  luggage 
a  whole  store  of  things,  all  gifts  for  Sannochka  and 
Yurochka.  Wonderful  things  they  were — priceless 
Chinese  dresses,  ivory,  gold,  miniatures  in  sardonyx, 
furs,  painted  fans,  lacquered  boxes,  albums — and  you 
ought  to  have  seen  and  heard  the  tenderness  and  the 
rapture  with  which  he  spoke  of  his  new  ones,  when  he 
showed  us  these  gifts.  His  love  may  have  been 
somewhat  blind,  too  noisy,  and  egotistical,  perhaps 
even  a  little  hysterical,  but  I  swear  that  through  these 
formal  and  trivial  veilings  I  could  see  a  great  and 
genuine  love — love  at  a  sharp  and  painful  tension. 

I  remember,  too,  how  at  one  of  the  stations  when 
another  waggon  was  being  attached  to  the  train,  a 
pointsman  had  his  foot  cut  off.  There  was  great  excite- 
ment, all  the  passengers  went  to  look  at  the  injured 
jnan — and  people  travelling  by  train  are  the  most 
empty-headed,  the  wildest,  the  most  cruel  in  the  world. 
The  engineer  did  not  stay  in  the  crowd,  he  went 
quietly  up  to  the  station-master,  talked  with  him 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  handed  him  a  note  for 


2i8  A   SLAV   SOUL 

a  sum  of  money — not  a  small  amount,  I  expect,  for  the 
official  cap  was  lifted  in  acknowledgment  with  the 
greatest  respect.  He  did  this  very  quickly  ;  no  one 
but  myself  saw  his  action,  but  I  have  eyes  that  notice 
such  things.  And  I  saw  also  that  he  took  advantage 
of  the  longer  stoppage  of  the  train  and  succeeded 
in  sending  off  a  telegram. 

I  can  see  him  now  as  he  walked  across  the  platform — 
his  white  engineer's  cap  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  head  ; 
his  long  blouse  of  fine  tussore,  with  collar  fastening 
at  the  side  ;  over  one  shoulder  the  strap  of  his  field- 
glasses,  and  crossing  it,  over  the  other  shoulder,  the 
strap  of  his  dispatch-case — coming  out  of  the  telegraph 
office  and  looking  so  fresh  and  plump  and  strong, 
with  such  a  clear  complexion,  and  the  look  of  a  well-fed, 
simple,  country  lad. 

And  at  almost  every  big  station  he  received  a  tele- 
gram. He  quite  spoilt  the  conductors — running  him- 
self to  the  office  to  inquire  if  there  was  no  message  for 
him.  Poor  boy  !  He  could  not  keep  his  joy  to  himself, 
but  read  his  telegrams  aloud  to  us,  as  if  we  had  nothing 
else  to  think  about  except  his  family  happiness — "  Hope 
you  are  well.  We  send  kisses  and  await  your  arrival 
impatiently. — Sannochka,  Yurochka."  Or:  "With 
watch  in  hand  we  follow  on  the  timetable  the  course 
of  your  train  from  station  to  station.  Our  spirits  and 
thoughts  are  with  you."  All  the  telegrams  were  of 
this  kind.  There  was  even  one  hke  this  :  "  Put  your 
watch  to  Petersburg  time,  and  exactly  at  eleven 
o'clock  look  at  the  star  Alpha  in  the  Great  Bear.  I 
will  do  the  same." 

There  was  one  passenger  on  the  train  who  was 
owner    or  bookkeeper,   or  manager  of  a  gold  mine. 


TEMPTING    PROVIDENCE  219 

a  Siberian,  with  a  face  like  that  of  Moses  the  Moor/ 
dry  and  elongated,  thick,  black,  stern  brows,  and  a 
long,  full,  greyish  beard — a  man  who  looked  as  if  he 
were  exceptionally  experienced  in  all  the  trials  of  life. 
He  made  a  warning  remark  to  the  engineer  : 

"  You  know,  young  man,  it's  no  use  you  abusing 
the  telegraph  service  in  such  a  way." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?   How  is  it  no  use  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  impossible  for  a  woman  to  keep  herself 
all  the  time  in  such  an  exalted  and  wound-up  state  of 
mind.  You  ought  to  have  mercy  on  other  peoples' 
nerves." 

But  the  engineer  only  laughed  and  clapped  the 
wiseacre  on  the  knee. 

"  Ah,  little  father,  I  know  you,  you  people  of  the 
Old  Testament.  You're  always  steahng  back  home 
unexpectedly  and  on  the  quiet.  '  Is  everything  as 
it  should  be  on  the  domestic  hearth  ?  '     Eh  ?  " 

But  the  man  with  the  ikon  face  only  raised  his 
eyebrows  and  smiled. 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?  Sometimes  there's  no  harm  in 
that." 

At  Nizhni  we  had  new  fellow-travellers,  and  at 
Moscow  new  ones  again.  The  agitation  of  my  engineer 
was  still  increasing.  What  could  be  done  with  him  ? 
He  made  acquaintance  with  everybody  ;  talked  to 
married  folks  of  the  sacredness  of  home,  reproached 
bachelors  for  the  slovenliness  and  disorder  of  bachelor 
life,  talked  to  young  ladies  about  a  single  and  eternal 
love,  conversed  with  mothers  about  their  children, 
and  always  led  the  conversation  to  talk  about   his 

1  One  of  the  hermits  of  the  Egyptian  Desert,  a  saint  in  the 
Russian  Calendar, 


220  A  SLAV  SOUL 

Sannochka  and  Yurochka.  Even  now  I  remember 
that  his  daughter  used  to  hsp :  "  I  have  thome  yellow 
thlipperth,"  and  the  like.  And  once,  when  she  was 
pulling  the  cat's  tail,  and  the  cat  mewed,  her  mother 
said,  "  Don't  do  that,  Yurochka,  you're  hurting  the  cat," 
and  the  child  answered,  "No,  mother,  it  hketh  it." 

It  was  all  very  tender,  very  touching,  but,  I'm 
bound  to  confess,  a  little  tiresome. 

Next  morning  we  were  nearing  Petersburg.  It 
was  a  dull,  wet,  unpleasant  day.  There  was  not  exactly 
a  fog,  but  a  kind  of  dirty  cloudiness  enveloped  the 
rusty,  thin-looking  pines,  and  the  wet  hills  looked  like 
hairy  warts  extending  on  both  sides  of  the  line.  I  got 
up  early  and  went  along  to  the  lavatory  to  wash  ;  on  the 
way  I  ran  into  the  engineer,  he  was  standing  by  the 
window  and  looking  alternately  at  his  watch  and  then 
out  of  the  window. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  I.     "  What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"  Oh,  good  morning,"  said  he.  "I'm  just  testing 
the  speed  of  the  train  ;  it's  going  about  sixty  versts  an 
hour." 

"  You  test  it  by  your  watch  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  very  simple.  You  see,  there  are  twenty- 
five  sazhens  between  the  posts — a  twentieth  part  of 
a  verst.  Therefore,  if  we  travel  these  twenty-five 
sazhens  in  four  seconds,  it  means  we  are  going  forty-five 
versts  an  hour ;  if  in  three  seconds,  we're  going  sixty 
versts  an  hour ;  if  in  two  seconds,  ninety.  But  you  can 
reckon  the  speed  without  a  watch  if  you  know  how  to 
count  the  seconds — you  must  count  as  quickly  as 
possible,  but  quite  distinctly,  one,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six — one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six — that's  a 
speciality  of  the  Austrian  General  Staff." 


TEMPTING    PROVIDENCE  221 

He  talked  on,  with  fidgety  movements  and  restless 
eyes,  and  I  knew  quite  well,  of  course,  that  all  this 
talk  about  the  counting  of  the  Austrian  General  Staff 
was  all  beside  the  point,  just  a  simple  diversion  of  his 
to  cheat  his  impatience. 

It  became  dreadful  to  watch  him  after  we  had  passed 
the  station  of  Luban.  He  looked  to  me  paler  and 
thinner,  and,  in  a  way,  older.  He  even  stopped  talking. 
He  pretended  to  read  a  newspaper,  but  it  was  evident 
that  it  was  a  tiresome  and  distasteful  occupation  for 
him ;  sometimes  he  even  held  the  paper  upside  down. 
He  would  sit  still  for  about  five  minutes,  then  go  to 
the  window,  sit  down  for  a  while  and  seem  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  push  the  train  forward,  then  go  again  to  the 
window  and  test  the  speed  of  the  train,  again  turning 
his  head,  first  to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left.  I 
know — who  doesn't  know  ? — that  days  and  weeks  of 
expectation  are  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  those 
last  half-hours,  with  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour. 

But  at  last  the  signal-box,  the  endless  network  of 
crossing  rails,  and  then  the  long  wooden  platform 
edged  with  a  row  of  porters  in  white  aprons.  .  .  .  The 
engineer  put  on  his  coat,  took  his  bag  in  his  hand, 
and  went  along  the  corridor  to  the  door  of  the  train. 
I  was  looking  out  of  the  window  to  hail  a  porter  as 
soon  as  the  train  stopped.  I  could  see  the  engineer 
very  well,  he  had  got  outside  the  door  on  to  the  step. 
He  noticed  me,  nodded,  and  smiled,  but  it  struck  me, 
even  at  that  distance,  how  pale  he  was. 

A  tall  lady  in  a  sort  of  silvery  bodice  and  a  large 
velvet  hat  and  blue  veil  went  past  our  carriage. 
A  little  girl  in  a  short  frock,  with  long,  white-gaitered 
legs,  was  with  her.     They  were  both  looking  for  some- 


222  A   SLAV   SOUL 

one,  and  anxiously  scanning  every  window.  But  they 
passed  him  over.  I  heard  the  engineer  cry  out  in  a 
strange,  choking,  trembhng  voice  : 

"  Sannochka  !  " 

I  think  they  both  turned  round.  And  then,  suddenly 
...  a  sharp  and  dreadful  wail.  ...  I  shall  never 
forget  it.  A  cry  of  perplexity,  terror,  pain,  lamentation, 
like  nothing  else  I've  ever  heard. 

The  next  second  I  saw  the  engineer's  head,  without 
a  cap,  somewhere  between  the  lower  part  of  the  train 
and  the  platform.  I  couldn't  see  his  face,  only  his 
bright  upstanding  hair  and  the  pinky  flesh  beneath, 
but  only  for  a  moment,  it  flashed  past  me  and  was 
gone.  .  .  . 

Afterwards  they  questioned  me  as  a  witness.  I 
remember  how  I  tried  to  calm  the  wife,  but  what  could 
one  say  in  such  a  case  ?  I  saw  him,  too — a  distorted 
red  lump  of  flesh.  He  was  dead  when  they  got  him 
out  from  under  the  train.  I  heard  afterwards  that  his 
leg  had  been  severed  first,  and  as  he  was  trying  instinc- 
tively to  save  himself,  he  fell  under  the  train,  and  his 
whole  body  was  crushed  under  the  wheels. 

But  now  I'm  coming  to  the  most  dreadful  point 
of  my  story.  In  those  terrible,  never-to-be-forgotten 
moments  I  had  a  strange  consciousness  which  would 
not  leave  me.  "  It's  a  stupid  death,"  I  thought, 
"  absurd,  cruel,  unjust,"  but  why,  from  the  very  first 
moment  that  I  heard  his  cry,  why  did  it  seem  clear 
to  me  that  the  thing  must  happen,  and  that  it  was 
somehow  natural  and  logical  ?  Why  was  it  ?  Can 
you  explain  it  ?  Was  it  not  that  I  felt  here  the  careless 
indifferent  smile  of  my  devil  ? 

His  widow — I  visited  her  afterwards,  and  she  asked 


TEMPTING   PROVIDENCE  223 

me  many  questions  about  him — said  that  they  both 
had  tempted  Fate  by  their  impatient  love,  in  their 
certainty  of  meeting,  in  their  sureness  of  the  morrow. 
Perhaps  so.  ...  I  can't  say.  ...  In  the  East,  that 
tried  well  of  ancient  wisdom,  a  man  never  says  that 
he  intends  to  do  something  either  to-day  or  to-morrow 
without  adding  "  Insh- Allah,"  which  means,  "  In  the 
name  of  God."  or  "  If  God  will." 

And  yet  I  don't  think  that  there  was  here  a  tempt- 
ing of  Fate,  it  seemed  to  me  just  the  absurd  logic  of 
a  mysterious  god.  Greater  joy  than  their  mutual 
expectation,  when,  in  spite  of  distance,  their  souls 
met  together — greater  joy,  perhaps,  these  two  would 
never  have  experienced  !  God  knows  what  might 
have  awaited  them  later  !  Dischantment  ?  Weariness  ? 
Boredom  ?     Perhaps  hate  ? 


XV 

CAIN 

The  company  of  soldiers  commanded  by  Captain 
Markof  had  come  to  take  part  in  a  punitive  expedition. 
Tired,  irritable,  weary  from  their  long  journey  in  an 
uncomfortable  train,  the  men  were  sullen  and  morose. 
On  their  arrival  at  a  station  with  a  strange-sounding 
foreign  name,  beer  and  vodka  were  served  out  to  them 
by  men  who  seemed  to  be  peasants.  The  soldiers 
cried  "  Hurrah  !  "  sang  songs  and  danced,  but  their 
faces  wore  a  look  of  stony  indifference. 

Then  the  work  began.  The  company  could  not  be 
burdened  with  prisoners,  and  so  all  suspected  persons 
whom  they  came  across  on  the  road,  and  all  those  who 
had  no  passports,  were  shot  without  delay.  Captain 
Markof  was  not  mistaken  in  his  psychological  analysis ; 
he  knew  that  the  steadily  increasing  irritation  of  his 
soldiers  would  find  a  certain  satisfaction  in  such 
bloody  chastisement. 

On  the  evening  of  December  31st  the  company 
stopped  for  the  night  at  a  half-ruined  baronial  farm. 
They  were  fifteen  versts  from  the  town,  and  the  captain 
reckoned  to  get  there  by  three  o'clock  the  next  after- 
noon. He  felt  certain  that  his  men  would  have  serious 
and  prolonged  work  there,  and  he  wanted  them  to 
get  whatever  rest  was  possible,  to  quiet  and  strengthen 
them  for  it.     He  therefore  gave  orders  that  they  be 


CAIN  225 

lodged  in  the  various  barns  and  outhouses  of  the  estate. 
He  himself  occupied  a  large  hollow-sounding,  empty 
room,  with  a  Gothic  fireplace,  in  which  a  bed,  taken 
from  the  local  clergyman,  had  been  placed. 

A  dark,  starless  night,  windy  and  sleety,  came 
down  upon  the  farm,  swiftly  and  almost  unnoticeably. 
Alone  in  his  immense  empty  chamber,  Markof  sat  in 
front  of  the  fireplace,  in  which  some  palings  from  the 
plundered  estate  were  burning  brightly.  He  put 
his  feet  on  the  grate  and  spread  out  a  military  map 
upon  his  bony  knees,  attentively  studying  the  neigh- 
bourhood between  the  farm  and  the  town.  In  the 
red  firelight  his  face,  with  its  high  forehead,  turned-up 
moustaches  and  firm,  obstinate  chin,  seemed  more 
severe  than  ever. 

The  sergeant-major  came  into  the  room.  The  water 
trickled  down  on  to  the  floor  from  his  waterproof 
cloak.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then, 
convinced  that  the  captain  had  not  noticed  his  entrance, 
coughed  discreetly. 

"Is  it  you  ?  "  said  the  captain,  bending  his  head 
back.     "What  is  it?  " 

"  Everything  is  in  order,  your  honour.  The  third 
platoon  is  on  guard,  the  first  division  at  the  church 
wall,  the  second  ..." 

"All  right!    What  else?     Is  the  pass-word  given  ?  " 

"  Yes,  your  honour.  ..."  The  sergeant  was  silent, 
as  if  waiting  to  hear  more,  but  as  the  captain  said 
nothing,  he  began  in  a  lower  tone, 

"  What's  to  be  done,  your  honour,  with  the  three 
who  .  .  ." 

"  Shoot  them   at   dawn,"   interrupted  the  captain 

sharply,  not  allowing  the  sergeant  to  finish  his  sentence, 
s.s  e 


226  A  SLAV   SOUL 

"  And  afterwards  " — he  frowned  and  looked  meaningly 
at  the  soldier — "  don't  ask  me  any  more  questions 
about  them.     Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  your  honour,"  answered  the  soldier 
emphatically.  .  .  .  And  they  were  both  silent  again. 
The  captain  lay  down  on  the  bed  without  undressing, 
and  the  sergeant  remained  at  the  door  in  the  shadow. 
For  some  reason  or  other  he  delayed  his  departure. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  the  captain  impatiently, 
without  turning  his  head. 

"  Yes,  that's  all,  your  honour."  The  soldier  fidgeted 
from  one  foot  to  another,  and  then  said  suddenly, 
with  a  determined  resolution, 

"  Your  honour  .  .  .  the  soldiers  want  to  know 
.  .  .  what's  to  be  done  with  .  .  .  the  old  man  ?  " 

"  Get  out  !  "  shouted  the  captain  with  sudden  anger, 
jumping  up  from  the  bed  and  making  as  if  to  strike 
him. 

The  sergeant-major  turned  dexterously  in  double- 
quick  time,  and  opened  the  door.  But  on  the  threshold 
he  stopped  for  a  moment  and  said  in  an  official  voice, 

"  Ah,  your  honour,  permit  me  to  congratulate  your 
honour  on  the  New  Year,  and  to  wish  ..." 

"  Thanks,  brother,"  answered  the  captain  dryly. 
"  Don't  forget  to  have  the  rifles  examined  more 
carefully  to-morrow." 

Left  alone  in  the  room,  Markof,  neither  undressing 
nor  taking  off  his  sword,  flung  himself  down  upon  the 
bed  and  lay  with  his  face  toward  the  fire.  His  counte- 
nance changed  suddenly,  taking  on  an  appearance  of 
age,  and  his  closely-cropped  head  drooped  on  his 
shoulders  ;  his  half-closed  eyes  wore  an  expression 
of  pain  and  weariness.      For  a  whole  week  he  had 


CAIN  227 

suffered  tortures  of  fever  and  had  only  overcome 
his  illness  by  force  of  will.  No  one  in  the  company 
knew  that  at  nights  he  tossed  about  in  fierce  paroxysms, 
shivering  in  ague,  delirious,  only  losing  consciousness 
for  moments,  and  then  in  fantastic  hideous  nightmares. 

He  lay  on  his  back  and  watched  the  blue  flames 
of  the  dying  fire,  feeling  every  moment  the  stealthy 
approaches  of  dizziness  and  weakness,  the  accompani- 
ments of  his  usual  attack  of  malaria.  His  thoughts 
were  connected  in  a  strange  fashion  with  the  old  man 
who  had  been  taken  prisoner  that  morning,  about  whom 
the  sergeant-major  had  just  been  speaking.  Markof's 
better  judgment  divined  that  the  sergeant-major 
had  been  right :  there  was,  indeed,  something  extra- 
ordinary about  the  old  man,  a  certain  magnificent 
indifference  to  life,  mingled  with  gentleness  and  a  deep 
melancholy.  People  of  his  type,  people  resembling 
this  old  man,  though  only  in  a  very  slight  degree, 
the  captain  had  seen  at  Lao-Yan  and  Mukden,  among 
the  unmurmuring  soldiers  dying  on  the  fields  of  battle. 
When  the  three  men  had  been  brought  before  Markof 
that  morning,  and  he  had  explained  to  them  by  the 
help  of  cynically-eloquent  gestures  that  they  would 
be  dealt  with  as  spies,  the  faces  of  the  two  others 
had  at  once  turned  pale  and  been  distorted  by  a  deadly 
terror  ;  but  the  old  man  had  only  laughed  with  a 
certain  strange  expression  of  weariness,  indifference, 
and  even  .  .  .  even  as  it  were  of  gentle  conde- 
scending compassion  towards  the  captain  himself, 
the  head  of  the  punitive  expedition. 

"  If  he  is  really  one  of  the  rebels,"  Markof  reflected, 
closing  his  inflamed  eyes,  and  feeling  as  if  a  soft  and 
bottomless  abyss  of  darkness  yawned  before  him,  then 

Q2 


228  A   SLAV   SOUL 

there  is  no  doubt  that  he  occupies  an  important  position 
among  them,  and  I've  acted  very  wisely  in  ordering 
him  to  be  shot.  But  suppose  the  old  man  is  quite 
innocent  ?  So  much  the  worse  for  him.  I  can't 
spare  two  men  to  guard  him,  especially  considering  what 
we've  got  to  do  to-morrow.  In  any  case,  why  should 
he  escape  the  destiny  of  those  fifteen  whom  we  shot 
yesterday  ?  No,  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  spare  him 
after  what  we  have  done  to  others." 

The  captain's  eyes  opened  slowly,  and  he  started  up 
suddenly  in  mortal  terror. 

Seated  on  a  low  stool  by  the  bedside,  with  bent  head, 
and  the  palms  of  his  hands  resting  upon  his  knees, 
in  a  quiet  and  sadly  thoughtful  attitude,  was  the  old 
man  who  had  been  sentenced  to  death. 

Markof,  though  he  believed  in  the  supernatural 
and  wore  on  his  breast  a  little  bag  containing  certain 
holy  bones,  was  no  coward  in  the  general  sense 
of  the  word.  To  retire  in  terror,  even  in  the  face 
of  the  most  mysterious  and  immaterial  phenomenon, 
the  captain  would  have  reckoned  as  much  a  disgrace 
as  if  he  had  fled  before  an  enemy  or  uttered  a  humiliat- 
ing appeal  for  mercy.  With  a  quick,  accustomed 
movement  he  drew  his  revolver  from  its  leathern  case 
and  pointed  it  at  the  head  of  his  unknown  visitant, 
and  he  shouted  like  a  madman, 

"  If  you  move,  you'll  go  to  the  devil  !  " 

The  old  man  slowly  turned  his  head.  Across  his 
lips  there  passed  that  same  smile  which  had  engraved 
itself  upon  the  captain's  memory  in  the  morning. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed.  Captain.  I  have  come  to  you 
without  evil  intention,"  said  he.  "Try  to  abstain 
from  murder  till  the  morning." 


CAIN  229 

The  voice  of  the  strange  visitant  was  as  enigmatical 
as  his  smile,  even  monotonous,  and  as  it  were  without 
timbre.  Long,  long  ago,  in  his  earliest  childhood, 
Markof  had  occasionally  heard  voices  like  this  when 
he  had  been  left  alone  in  a  room,  he  had  heard  such 
voices  behind  him,  voices  without  colour  or  expression, 
calling  him  by  his  own  name.  Obedient  to  the  incom- 
prehensible influence  of  this  smile  and  this  voice, 
the  captain  put  his  revolver  under  his  pillow  and  lay 
down  again,  leaning  his  head  on  his  elbow,  and  never 
taking  his  eyes  from  the  dark  figure  of  the  unknown 
person.  For  some  minutes  the  room  was  filled  with 
a  deep  and  painful  silence  ;  there  was  only  heard 
the  ticking  of  Markof's  watch,  hurriedly  beating 
out  the  seconds,  and  the  burnt-out  fuel  in  the  grate 
falling  with  a  weak,  yet  resounding  and  metallic, 
crackle. 

"  Tell  me,  Markof,"  began  the  old  man  at  length, 
"  what  would  you  answer,  not  to  a  judge  or  to  the 
authorities,  or  even  to  the  emperor,  but  to  your  own 
conscience,  should  it  ask  you,  '  Why  did  you  enter 
upon  this  terrible,  unjust  slaughter  ?  '  " 

Markof  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if  in  mockery. 

"  You  speak  rather  freely,  old  man,"  said  he,  "  for 
one  who  is  going  to  be  shot  in  four  hours'  time.  How- 
ever, we'll  have  a  little  conversation,  if  you  hke.  It's 
a  better  occupation  for  me  than  to  toss  about  sleep- 
lessly  in  fever.  How  shall  I  answer  my  conscience  ? 
I  shall  say  first  that  I  am  a  soldier,  and  that  it  is  my 
duty  to  obey  orders  imphcitly  ;  and  secondly,  I  am 
a  Russian  by  birth,  and  I  would  make  it  clear  to  the 
whole  world  that  he  who  dares  to  rise  up  against  the 
might  of  the  great  power  of  Russia  shall  be  crushed  as 


230  A   SLAV   SOUL 

a  worm  under  the  heel,  and  his  very  tomb  shall  be 
made  level  with  the  dust.  ..." 

"  O  Markof,  Markof,  what  a  wild  and  bloodthirsty 
pride  speaks  in  your  words !  "  replied  the  old  man. 
"  And  what  untruth  !  If  you  look  at  an  object  and 
put  your  eyes  quite  close  to  it  you  see  only  the  smallest 
of  its  details,  but  go  further  away,  and  you  see  it  in  its 
true  form.  Do  you  really  think  that  your  great 
country  is  immortal  ?  Did  not  the  Persians  think 
so  once,  and  the  Macedonians,  and  proud  Rome,  who 
seized  the  whole  world  in  her  iron  claws,  and  the  wild 
hordes  of  Huns  who  overran  Europe,  and  mighty 
Spain,  lord  over  three-fourths  of  the  globe  ?  Yet  ask 
history  what  has  become  of  their  immeasurable  power. 
And  I  can  tell  you  that  thousands  of  centuries  before 
these  there  were  great  kingdoms,  stronger,  prouder, 
and  more  cultured  than  yours.  But  life,  which  is 
stronger  than  nations  and  more  ancient  than 
memorials,  has  swept  them  aside  in  her  mysterious 
path,  leaving  neither  trace  nor  memory  of  them." 

"  That's  fooKshness,"  objected  the  captain,  in  a 
feeble  voice,  lying  down  again  upon  his  back. 
"History  follows  out  its  own  course,  and  we  can 
neither  guide  it  nor  show  it  the  way." 

The  old  man  laughed  noiselessly. 

"  You're  like  that  African  bird  which  hides  its  head 
in  the  sand  when  it  is  pursued  by  the  hunter.  Believe 
me,  a  hundred  years  hence  your  children's  children 
will  be  ashamed  of  their  ancestor,  Alexander  Vassilitch 
Markof,  murderer  and  executioner." 

"  You  speak  strongly,  old  man  !  Yes,  I've  heard  of 
the  ravings  of  those  enthusiastic  dreamers  who  want 
to  change  swords  into  ploughshares.  .  .  .  Ha-ha-ha  ! 


CAIN  231 

I  picture  to  myself  the  sort  of  state  these  scrofulous 
neurasthenists  and  rickety  idiots  of  pacifists  would 
make.  No,  it  is  only  war  that  can  forge  out  an  athletic 
body  and  an  iron  character.  However  .  .  .  " — 
Markof  pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  striving  to 
remember  something — "however,  this  is  all  unim- 
portant. .  .  .  But  what  was  it  I  wanted  to  ask  you  ? 
.  .  .  Ah,  yes  !  Somehow  I  don't  think  you  will  tell 
me  untruths.     Do  you  belong  to  these  parts  ?  " 

"  No."     The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"  But  surely  you  were  born  in  the  district  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  But  you  are  a — European  ?  What  are  you, 
French  ?     English  ?     Russian  ?     German  ?  " 

"No,  no.  ..." 

Markof,  in  exasperation,  struck  the  side  of  the  bed 
with  his  fist. 

"  Well,  who  are  you,  then  ?  And  why  the  devil  do 
I  know  your  face  so  well  ?  Have  we  ever  met  any- 
where ?  " 

The  old  man  bent  his  head  still  lower  and  sat  for 
a  long  time  saying  no  word.  At  last  he  began  to  speak, 
as  if  hesitating  : 

"  Yes,  we  have  met,  Markof,  but  you  have  never 
seen  me.  Probably  you  don't  remember,  or  you've 
forgotten,  how  once,  during  an  epidemic  of  plague,  your 
uncle  hanged  in  one  morning  fifty-nine  persons.  I 
was  within  two  paces  of  him  that  day,  but  he  didn't 
see  me." 

"  Yes  .  .  .  that's  true  .  .  .  fifty-nine  .  .  ."  muttered 
Markof,  feeling  himself  overwhelmed  by  an  intolerable 
heat.     "But  they  .  .  .  were  .  .  .  rioters.  .  .  ." 

"  I  saw  your  father's  cruel  exploits  at  Sevastopol, 


232  A  SLAV  SOUL 

and  your  work  after  the  capture  of  Ismaila,"  the  old 
man  went  on  in  his  hollow  voice.  "  Before  my  eyes  has 
been  shed  enough  blood  to  drown  the  whole  world. 
I  was  with  Napoleon  on  the  fields  of  Austerlitz,  Fried- 
land,  Jena,  and  Borodina.  I  saw  the  mob  applauding 
the  executioner  when  he  held  up  before  them  on  the 
platform  of  the  guillotine  the  bloody  head  of  Louis  XVL 
I  was  present  on  the  eve  of  St.  Bartholomew,  when  the 
Catholics,  with  prayers  on  their  lips,  murdered  the 
wives  and  children  of  the  Huguenots.  In  the  midst 
of  a  crowd  of  enraged  fanatics  I  gazed  whilst  the  holy 
fathers  of  the  Inquisition  burned  heretics  at  the  stake, 
flayed  people  alive  for  the  glory  of  God,  and  poured 
white-hot  lead  into  their  mouths.  I  followed  the  hordes 
of  Attila,  Genghis  Khan,  and  Solyman  the  Magnificent, 
whose  paths  were  marked  by  mountains  of  human 
skulls.  I  was  with  the  noisy  Roman  crowd  in  the 
circus  when  they  sewed  Christians  up  in  the  skins 
of  wild  animals  and  hunted  them  with  dogs,  when  they 
fed  the  beasts  with  the  bodies  of  captive  slaves  .  .  . 
I  have  seen  the  wild  and  bloody  orgies  of  Nero,  and 
heard  the  wailing  of  the  Jews  at  the  ruined  walls  of 
Jerusalem.  ..." 

"  You're — only  my  dream  ...  go  away  .  .  .  you're — 
only  a  figure  in  my  delirium.  Go  away  from  me  !  " 
Markof 's  parched  lips  uttered  the  words  with  difficulty. 

The  old  man  got  up  from  the  stool.  His  bent 
figure  became  in  a  moment  immensely  tall,  so  that 
his  hair  seemed  to  touch  the  ceiling.  He  began  to 
speak  again,  slowly,  monotonously,  terribly  : 

"  I  saw  how  the  blood  of  man  was  first  shed  upon 
the  earth.  There  were  two  brothers.  One  was 
gentle,  tender,  industrious,  compassionate  ;  the  other, 


CAIN  233 

the  elder,  was  proud,  cruel,  and  envious.  One  day 
they  both  brought  offerings  to  the  Lord  according  to 
the  custom  of  their  fathers  :  the  younger  brought  of 
the  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  elder  of  the  flesh  of  animals 
killed  by  him  in  the  chase.  But  the  elder  cherished  in 
his  heart  a  feeling  of  ill-will  towards  his  brother,  and 
the  smoke  of  his  sacrifice  spread  itself  out  over  the 
earth,  while  that  of  his  brother  ascended  as  an  upright 
column  to  the  heavens.  Then  the  hate  and  envy  which 
oppressed  the  soul  of  the  elder  overflowed,  and  there 
was  committed  the  first  murder  on  the  earth  ..." 

"  Go  away,  leave  me  .  ,  .  for  God's  sake,"  Markof 
muttered  to  himself,  and  tossed  about  in  his  crumpled 
sheets. 

"  Yes,  I  saw  his  eyes  grow  wide  with  the  terror  of 
death,  and  his  clenched  fingers  clutch  convulsively 
at  the  sand,  wet  with  his  blood.  And  when  after  his 
last  shudder  his  pale  cold  body  lay  still  upon  the  ground, 
then  the  murderer  was  overwhelmed  by  an  unbearable 
terror.  He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  ran  into  the 
depths  of  the  forest,  and  lay  trembling  there,  until 
at  eventide  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  offended  God — 
'  Cain,  where  is  thy  brother  Abel  ?  '  " 

"Go  away;  don't  torture  me!"  Markof's  lips 
could  scarcely  move.  Yet  he  seemed  to  hear  the  voice 
continue, 

"  In  fear  and  trembling  I  answered  the  Lord,  'Am 
I  my  brother's  keeper  ?  '  And  then  the  Lord  pro- 
nounced on  me  an  eternal  curse  : 

"  '  Thou  shalt  remain  among  the  number  of  the 
living  as  long  as  the  earth  shall  endure.  Thou  shalt 
roam  as  a  homeless  wanderer  through  all  centuries, 
among  all  nations  and  in  all  lands,  and  thine  eyes  shall 


234  A   SLAV  SOUL 

behold  nought  but  the  blood  shed  by  thee  upon  the 
earth,  thine  ears  shall  hear  only  the  moans  of  the  dying 
— eternal  reminders  of  the  brother  thou  hast  slain.'  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  when  the  old 
man  spoke  again  each  word  fell  into  Markof's  soul 
with  pain : 

"  O  Lord,  how  just  and  inexorable  is  Thy  judgment ! 
Already  many  centuries  and  tens  of  centuries  have 
I  wandered  upon  the  earth,  vainly  expecting  to  die. 
A  mighty  and  merciless  power  ever  calls  me  to  appear 
where  on  the  battlefields  the  soldiers  lie  dead  in  their 
blood,  where  mothers  weep,  and  curses  are  heaped 
upon  me,  the  first  murderer.  There  is  no  end  to  my 
sufferings,  for  every  time  I  see  the  blood  of  man 
flowing  from  his  body  I  see  again  my  brother,  stretched 
out  upon  the  ground  clutching  handfuls  of  sand  with 
his  dying  fingers  .  .  .  And  in  vain  do  I  desire  to  cry 
out,  '  Awake  !     Awake  !     Awake  !  '  " 

"  Wake  up,  your  honour,  wake  !  "  The  insistent 
voice  of  the  sergeant-major  sounded  in  Markof's  ears. 
"  A  telegram !  .  .  ." 

The  captain  was  awake  and  on  his  feet  in  a  moment. 
His  strong  will  asserted  itself  at  once,  as  usual.  The 
fire  had  long  since  died  out,  and  the  pale  light  of  dawn 
gleamed  through  the  window. 

"  What  about  .  .  .  those  ..."  asked  Markof, 
in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  As  you  ordered,  your  honour,  just  this  moment." 

"  But  the  old  man  ?     The  old  man  ?  " 

"  As  well." 

The  captain  sank  down  upon  the  bed  as  if  his  strength 
had  suddenly  left  him.  The  sergeant-major  stood 
at  attention  beside  him,  awaiting  orders. 


CAIN  235 

"  That's  it,  brother,"  said  the  captain  in  a  feeble 
voice.  "  You  must  take  the  command  in  my  place. 
I  will  send  in  my  papers  to-day  for  I  ...  I  ...  'm 
absolutely  tormented  by  this  cursed  fever.  .  ,  .  And 
perhaps  " — he  tried  to  smile,  but  only  distorted  his 
features  by  the  effort — "  perhaps  I  may  soon  be 
entirely  at  rest." 

The  sergeant-major  saluted  and  answered  calmly, 
as  if  nothing  could  surprise  him, 

"  Yes,  your  honour." 


BRADBURY,   AGNEW,    &   CO.    LD.,    PRINTERS,   LONDON    AND   TONBRIDGE. 


THE 

SWEET-SCENTED 

NAME  , 

AND   OTHER   FJIRT-TJIES,   FABLES, 
AND    STORIES 

By  FEDOR    SOLOGUB 


PRESS   OPINIONS. 

' '  The  greatest  literary  treasure  that  has  appeared  during  the  present 
year."  Robert  Lynd  in  Daily  News. 

"  The  witty  crispness  of  the  fables  will  be  grateful  to  the  English 
palate,  and  the  fairy-tales  certainly  possess  a  subtle  and  tender  beauty." 

Nation. 

"  Sologub's  fairy  kingdom  is  the  real  thing,  full  of  glamour  and 
caprice  and  real  kindnesses."  Morning  Post. 

"  Sologub's  heart  is  the  home  of  forlorn  causes.  All  that  is  pitiful^ 
forsaken,  simple  and  wounded,  wins  his  tenderness.  His  mind  loves 
and  delights  in  the  beautiful.  .  .  ."  Times. 

"  Contains  one  story  which  stands  out  as  a  masterpiece  of  fairy  litera- 
ture— '  Turantina.'  "  The  Queen, 

"  Beautifully  told,  and  the  whole  collection  is  very  charming." 

Christian  Commonwealth, 

"  In  the  stories  of  Sologub  there  is  real  charm.  The  prevailing  tone 
is  plaintive  and  tragical,  but  they  are  full  of  tender  and  beautiful 
periods."  Church  Times, 


06^^ 


:^rc 


<ini  iTuco!^"i^^''®'*y  °^  California 
LOS  ANGEUS,  caufIr'S  a' VoalTall"^' 


WR  1 6  200? 


iiiuii^ III  JInl I  111 liili "III III" iiiii 'j"i^  „    _ 

L  006  130  693  2 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  575  678    8 


